


The Drowning Men

by karuvapatta



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Crowley is in a cult, Human AU, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-10-05 01:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20481035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Crowley was done with religion years before he met Father Aziraphale.





	1. Chapter 1

The card beeped. Crowley grabbed his coffee and was ready to leave when the barista halted him.

“Uh. I’m sorry sir, it got rejected. Would you—”

“Yes, fine,” Crowley snapped.

He swiped. The card beeped. _Rejected_. Again.

He began to curse under his breath as he dug around his pockets for spare change. It was just a coffee! Damn. Damn. Surely there was a couple of pounds he had managed to forget about. There usually were, up until you really needed them.

The people queuing behind him were growing restless. Crowley spared them an annoyed glance from behind his sunglasses.

“Uh,” he said. “Just a moment—maybe it’s an issue with the bank, lemme check—”

“May I?” said a voice behind him.

Quite a pleasant voice it was. It was attached to a man with curly pale hair, blue eyes, and a sense of fashion that wasn’t so much bad as fifty years out of date. He was holding out a card in his outstretched hand, smiling warmly at the barista.

He wasn’t Crowley’s type, not exactly, but his smile was nice. Crowley had to give him that. And, well, if a stranger wanted to sponsor his caffeine addiction, that was fine too.

That’s what he thought, anyway, until his eyes slid downwards, and he noticed the collar hugging the man’s neck.

“No thank you,” he sneered.

The _priest _looked at him, blue eyes wide with surprise. “Oh I assure you, dear boy, it is no trouble at all—”

“I have no intention of being your good deed of the day, Father,” Crowley said pleasantly.

The words were petty; they made the priest nervous. He felt a vindictive sort of satisfaction at that.

“I see. Well,” the man cleared his throat and shuffled the card in his hands. “Consider this a favour, in this case. Not towards yourself—” he added, with a steely glint in his eyes. “But to the people we have kept waiting a rather long time, haven’t we?” He turned to the annoyed middle-aged woman right behind Crowley. “Do forgive us, ma’am. We will be just a minute.”

The queue was growing restless. Normally Crowley wouldn’t _care_, of course; he _didn’t_. Still, he said nothing as the priest paid for the cup of coffee. Of course _his _card didn’t get rejected.

“There you go,” the priest said happily, handing him the paper cup.

Crowley shot him a contemptuous glare and walked off. But it didn’t feel right. It really didn’t.

The priest was collecting his own order: a cappuccino and a brioche, still warm, that the barista slipped into a paper bag. Having apparently forgotten Crowley’s rudeness, the priest was saying, rather excitedly, that the brioche smelled _divine _and the staff was doing such a splendid job, really.

It turned Crowley’s stomach.

“_Bon appetit_,” he told the priest, as he was spooning brown sugar into his own (black) coffee. “Unless it’s a sin to enjoy pastries, of course. I know how the Church feels about Earthly pleasures.”

“It allows sweets, as far as I’m aware. In moderation,” the priest said mildly. He didn’t seem annoyed or irritated by Crowley’s rude remarks, which was incredibly frustrating. And then he _lit up_. “Would you like one? They truly are incredible—”

“No,” Crowley snapped.

That shut the man up. There was something in that blue eyes of his, however, and that smile: something even Crowley couldn’t bring himself to ignore.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said, gesturing uselessly with the steaming cup and nearly spilling the contents all over himself. “I—uh. There must have been an issue with the bank—”

“It’s alright,” the priest said, warmly. “You don’t have to explain.”

Crowley, who felt an overwhelming urge to do just that, forced his mouth to remain shut.

“What are you doing in Soho, of all places?” he asked instead.

“I work here, actually. Part-time,” the priest carefully placed a lid on his own cup. Not exactly sure why, Crowley followed him outside of the small café onto the overcrowded street. “At that bookshop over there.”

_How_, Crowley wanted to ask. It was prime real-estate! The building seemed a little run-down, and the interior of the shop dusty and cramped, but it was incredible a place like this managed to keep itself running and hadn’t yet been swallowed by Waterstones. Or some sex shop.

“I must be off,” the priest said. “I’m expecting a delivery, you see, but couldn’t quite resist those pastries.” He laughed softly, and a bit self-consciously, looking down at himself. “It is an ongoing problem.”

“Oh, I’m sure God will make an exception,” Crowley said, voice dripping with venom. “Well. I will leave you to your holy work, Father.”

Instead of answering, the man kept on looking at him, not at all unkindly.

“Believe me, dear boy, it was lovely to meet you,” he said, with more of that disgusting earnestness. Good Lord, it was sickening. “Perhaps we will run into each other again?”

“I hope not,” said Crowley, and fled.

***

He caught himself returning to that day next week, as he passed the damned café. It was just a coffee, and yet. _Yet. _It continued to eat away at his conscience. Under any other circumstances, he might forget about the entire thing. But he would be damned if he were to owe anything to the Church. Even £2.05.

And so it was that Crowley, coins in hand, walked inside the priest’s dusty old bookshop on a rainy Wednesday morning.

It took several trips; the place’s opening hours didn’t seem to make any sense whatsoever. But, finally, there was the man himself: he was busy shelving books and didn’t notice Crowley until he very pointedly cleared his throat.

“Oh!” the priest turned, rather rapidly, nearly knocking several heavy tomes from a cart. He blinked several times from behind a pair of old-fashioned spectacles, before his face lit up with recognition. “Oh, hello!”

“Hi,” said Crowley.

The priest was wearing a light blue button-up shirt, with the obligatory white collar. The sleeves have been rolled back, exposing his forearms. For some reason, Crowley’s gaze was drawn to the nervous hand gestures and the glint of gold on the man’s little finger.

After a moment Crowley remembered why he was here at all.

“Your money,” he said, placing the coins on the tray. “This is how much I owe you, isn’t it?”

It was the smile, Crowley realized later. The priest had an unfairly beautiful smile.

“Goodness—no, it was nothing,” the man said, flustered. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” Crowley shrugged. “Either way. Good day to you, Father.”

“No—wait, please!” the priest continued to smile. “It was my pleasure. But if it’s been weighing on you—”

“It wasn’t _weighing on me_.”

His sharp, sarcastic tone managed to wipe the smile of the man’s face. Crowley didn’t feel as good about it as he had thought he might.

“Yes. Yes. Nevertheless,” the man cleared his throat, and then didn’t say anything else.

To cover the awkwardness, Crowley took a more careful look around the shop. It was overcrowded and painfully old-fashioned, which he couldn’t help but sneer about. But the collection was impressive.

“This doesn’t seem very holy to me, Father,” he said, tapping the bound leather cover of the _Picture of Dorian Gray_.

“It’s a classic,” the priest said, somewhat defensively.

“Ah, that’s more like it.” Crowley arrived at a shelf filled with Holy Bibles. “How many of those do you actually need?”

“Oh, that’s my collection of the Infamous Bibles, actually,” a glint of amusement appeared in the man’s blue eyes. “I keep them out of historical interest.”

Crowley picked one at random. It was very old; the publication date was set at 1632. The paper was thin and yellowy and there seemed to be nothing outwardly wrong with it that Crowley could see.

“The _Wicked Bible_,” the priest said. “Named so because of a particular printing error – the word_ not _is omitted from the book of Exodus, chapter 20, verse 14.”

Long-forgotten memories stirred inside Crowley’s head.

“’Thou _shall_ commit adultery’?” he asked.

“Yes,” the priest said, obviously taken aback. “Yes—exactly.”

Crowley snapped the book shut. Misprint or not, it still made the priest flinch.

“A major improvement, if you ask me,” he said.

He put the Bible back where it belonged, which was _away_ from Crowley. He had had enough of these things already.

“My dear boy—”

Crowley scoffed. “You’re barely older than me, Father, and we’re almost two decades into the 21st century.”

“Indeed,” the priest said, rather self-consciously. “In that case, allow me—my name is Aziraphale.” He offered Crowley his hand.

After a pause, Crowley accepted it.

“Crowley. Anthony Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s hand was soft, and warm. Rather like the rest of him, Crowley thought, and then cursed his own mind for coming up with such ridiculous statements.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale said, testing the sound of the word. In his mouth, it was almost pleasant – pleasant enough to throw Crowley off.

“Right,” he said, stupidly.

He realized he was still holding Aziraphale’s hand. He let it go, suddenly, as if it had burned him.

“Well,” he said. “I will leave you to your books and your sermons, then. The sinners won’t know the error of their ways until you point it out to them, isn’t that so?”

“In my experience, they usually do,” Aziraphale said gently.

Crowley laughed. “Nice try, Father. I didn’t come here to confess or do anything of the sort.”

He used to, he thought grimly. And, fuck, each and every time he walked away from the confessional feeling lighter and closer to God. But that was then, and this was now; now he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Well, whatever it is you came here for, I am glad you did,” Aziraphale said. And he sounded _genuine_, damn him; as if standing here, talking to Crowley, was a worthwhile use of his time. “My doors are always open.”

“Really,” Crowley asked an unimpressed eyebrow, pointing at the lengthy, complicated sign on the door of the book shop.

“Well,” the priest winced. “Metaphorically speaking. But you can usually find me at my parish.” He gave Crowley the name and address, which Crowley promptly attempted to forget. Just in case he was ever tempted.

It wasn’t the same feeling, not even close; but, as he left the dusty bookshop, Crowley couldn’t help but feel a little lighter on his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a little hesitant about putting Bible quotes in this chapter, but... yeah. Here they are. I mean no offence.
> 
> Future chapters will hopefully be lighter on the religion and heavier on the UST :)

He hadn’t been to a Church in years, so what on Earth possessed him to go now? Crowley didn’t know. Or, at least, he pretended that he didn’t.

A queasy, unpleasant feeling crept up his spine as soon as he set foot through the ornate door. It seemed to rise up through the cool stone floor and the soles of his feet, as if the ground itself had something against Crowley’s presence. His legs felt heavy as lead and his heart beat an unsteady, irregular rhythm. Just in case, he opted to remain near the exit, partially hidden between the wall and a column. He didn’t even bother removing his sunglasses, even though they made it almost impossible to see in the gloom.

Throughout the service, Crowley remained twitchy. He had to concentrate on resisting his muscle memory: his knees wanted to bend at the appropriate segments, his treacherous lips formed words that he didn’t want to voice. Keeping still took most of his attention. But, yes, he was forced to conclude that Father Aziraphale wasn’t a bad preacher. His awkward, nervous gestures were nowhere to be seen; his voice remained clear and strong. He went through the motions and rituals with deep, genuine devotion, as if he truly believed he was taking part in something sacred. Even Crowley, who had come here with a very critical mindset, didn’t find anything worthy of criticism.

After the service, Crowley remained inside. He liked the stillness and silence; had always found it peaceful. Now, however, there was the ever-present voice inside his head, calm and matter-of-fact.

_You’re not welcome here_. _This isn’t for you._

“Anthony!” Father Aziraphale said, in a hushed tone but with apparent delight. “I didn’t expect you here today.”

“Why would you have expected me at all?” Crowley asked.

He couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing that Azirphale saw him. He hadn’t meant to run into him; he was just curious as to what sort of preacher he was. Definitely wasn’t hoping to talk.

“Fair point,” Aziraphale conceded. “This isn’t your parish, is it?”

“Nope,” Crowley said.

“If you have the time, perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner?” he asked. “There is a lovely Japanese restaurant nearby and I haven’t had the chance to eat yet today.”

Bewildered, Crowley gaped at him. “Why do you want to have dinner with me?” he asked.

He couldn’t be sure because of the sunglasses, but he thought he saw a hint of colour in Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“Well. It is much more pleasant to dine with company, is it not?” the priest said.

“I am astonished you find my company pleasant,” Crowley snorted.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely surprised.

Crowley shrugged in response. “Dunno.”

Sushi. He wasn’t a fan, but whatever.

Father Aziraphale met him outside about fifteen minutes later, dressed in civilian clothes. With a tartan scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, he didn’t even look like a clergyman. Crowley thought he might prefer it that way, actually.

They headed for the small restaurant. Inside, the waiter greeted Aziraphale, who replied in halting but passable Japanese. Crowley couldn’t understand the conversation but he figured that Aziraphale declined his usual seat at the bar and asked instead for one of the small tables lining the wall.

Crowley scanned the menu with little interest, and then the wine card with slightly more attention.

“Do you come here often, Father?” he asked to fill in the silence after the waiter took their order.

“Too often,” Aziraphale said, sighing.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, and the priest smiled.

“It’s delightful, isn’t it?”

And he _meant_ it. They chatted idly while their food was being prepared, about weather (rainy) and politics (messy). Then, when the plates were set, Aziraphale picked up his chopsticks and focused almost entirely on the sushi, pausing only to remark on the flavours, texture, and so on. Overall, Crowley concluded that listening to Aziraphale talk about food was a lot more enjoyable than actually eating it.

When Crowley emptied his glass of wine, Aziraphale immediately picked up the bottle.

“Please, allow me—“ he poured the wine, smiling. “I’ve been meaning to ask though - why have you come to the mass today? Why not Sunday?”

“I’m planning to be extremely hungover on Sunday morning,” Crowley said casually in lieu of answering the actual question.

It didn’t escape the priest’s attention, but he didn’t press the subject. Somewhat nervously, he asked: “What did you think of the sermon?”

Oh, hell no. Crowley wasn’t about to wax poetic about the priest’s oratory skills; it was bad enough that he got caught listening.

“Fine, I suppose,” he shrugged. “I don’t really listen to many of those so I wouldn’t know.”

Aziraphale didn’t challenge the words, even though he had to have some doubts as to how true they actually were. A little awkwardly, he ran his hand through his blonde curls.

“The Bishop is still unsure if I’m the right person for this assignment,” Aziraphale said. “It’s a difficult position, and he has—concerns about my abilities. Understandable, of course,” he added hastily. “The Bishop is a wise man.”

“Of course,” Crowley said, trying not to snigger. Aziraphale looked like he was about to say something else but changed his mind halfway through, covering it up with a fake cough. Deciding to take pity on him, Crowley asked: “Why the bookshop, then?”

“Oh!” Those blue eyes positively lit up at the mere mention of it. “It’s an old family business, actually. Established in 1800. Would have happened earlier, but my ancestor died tragically during the French Revolution.”

Crowley nodded grimly. Old family business, indeed. Here was a man, obediently upholding traditions. Making his family proud.

“But to tell you the truth,” Aziraphale continued, “I’m definitely not right for _this_ job. I can rarely bring myself to part with the books.” He sighed. “I should hire someone to help around the place, but I haven’t really had the time yet - between the parish, and the fact that—well—“

“You don’t like people’s filthy hands on your books,” Crowley supplied cheerfully.

Aziraphale glared at him. “I would have phrased it differently.”

“Oh, I’m sure, Father,” Crowley said.

They worked their way through the bottle. Crowley wasn’t saying much, but there seemed to be no end to the topics Aziraphale could be enthusiastic about when faced with a receptive audience. And, shockingly, Crowley was more than happy to indulge him.

It was—nice. He guessed.

When the waiter arrived with their bill, Crowley reached for his wallet. The priest, however, stopped him.

“No, please—allow me—“

Just like that, Crowley’s good will evaporated.

“I can pay for my own food, Father,” he said coldly.

Aziraphale gave him a nervous little smile.

“Yes, well—but I invited you, didn’t I? I chose the place.”

Crowley wanted to argue; he did. Angry words were at the very tip of his tongue. But the waiter was already turning towards Aziraphale and they exchanged a few words in Japanese while Crowley sat there, quietly fuming.

They left the restaurant in awkward silence. Aziraphale paused on the pavement and laced his hands together, nervously meeting Crowley’s gaze.

“Thank you for joining me today, Anthony,” he said, in a soft, shy voice.

“My pleasure,” Crowley said, quite put out to discover that it had been; it still was. Then he frowned. “Next time, I choose the place though.”

“Next time?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. He had said it without thinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if the priest had any reason to accept - as_ if_.

“I only meant—“

“No, that would be lovely,” Aziraphale’s smile made him feel all sorts of things, each one sillier than the other. “When?”

After some negotiation, they agreed on a date. Next week - not too soon, as Aziraphale was actually busy, and Crowley wanted to seem like he was.

***

“So where are we going?” Azirphale asked.

Telling him would defy the purpose of the surprise, so Crowley only grinned maniacally and drove through the streets of London at a speed that was making the priest uncomfortable. And he was only _slightly_ bending the rules.

Aziraphale didn’t breathe easier until he got out of the parked car. His relief was short-lived, however; his eyes widened as he took in the entrance to the restaurant.

“Anthony, you cannot be serious,” he said.

“Why not?”

Aziraphale looked at him helplessly. “My dear boy, I’m afraid this place is not within my budget.”

“S’ fine, Father, I invited you,” Crowley said. “Made the reservation and everything. You can’t ditch me now or they won’t take me seriously ever again.”

“But—”

“After you.”

Glancing around with wide blue eyes, Aziraphale walked inside the Ritz. It didn’t disappoint: the luxurious interior décor, rich well-dressed patrons, soft piano music. Maître d’ showed them to the table and offered Crowley a selection of ridiculously expensive wines to choose from, which he happily did.

“Are you sure about this?” Aziraphale asked in a low voice.

They were perhaps a little underdressed for the occasion, but Aziraphale was a priest. Dress codes only partially applied to him. As for Crowley, he couldn’t care less what the staff thought of his sunglasses, tight jeans, or leather jacket. Or the tattoo.

“Oh, very,” Crowley said, amused. “Cheers, Father.”

The explosion of flavour on his tongue was instantaneous. Bloody good wine, that was.

“So what do you do, Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, because he was too polite for the more direct _How the hell can you afford to eat here_.

“I, uh,” Crowley paused for a moment.

Damn. _Damn_. Of course this was going to come up, why couldn’t he think of a convincing lie beforehand? And it wasn’t just that a part of him recoiled at the idea of lying to a priest, _still_. After everything that happened.

All of a sudden, he felt a surge of anger. He had no _reason _to lie. Let Aziraphale think what he would, Crowley sure as hell didn’t care about his opinion.

“I have a rich boyfriend,” he said. “That not going to be a problem, is it?”

There was no surprise in Aziraphale’s face. No shock, no revulsion; not even the slightest pause. For some reason that was even _worse_.

“Why would it be?” Aziraphale asked softly.

“Your lot doesn’t look kindly on people like me,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s expression remained serene.

“‘Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God’,” he quoted. “And also: ‘Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for whoever loves others has fulfilled the law.’”

Crowley frowned. “Romans, isn’t it? Chapter 13 and, uh—”

“13 and 15,” Aziraphale said, obviously delighted. “I have to say, Anthony, your knowledge is impressive.”

“Oh, I only remember the important bits,” Crowley said acidly. “Romans, chapter 1, verses 26 and 27: ‘Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error.’”

He took vindictive glee from Aziraphale’s obvious discomfort.

Quietly, Aziraphale quoted: “’For if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live.’” He spoke the words, but his voice was different, mechanical; as if he didn’t quite believe in the truth of what he was saying. Crowley only noticed the change because he had already heard Aziraphale preach with absolute conviction.

The arrival of their food put a quick, merciful end to the awkward conversation. Aziraphale hadn’t quite regained his customary enthusiasm. That is, until he put the first bite of food in his mouth.

“_Oh_,” he said. His eyes closed; he chewed slowly, savouring every bite, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. Crowley was inclined to describe his expression as _rapturous_, and only because he didn’t want to use the _other _word that sprang to mind. “This is _divine_, Anthony.”

“And _that_’s blasphemy,” Crowley sniggered.

But the food was good, he had to give them that. Almost worth its price.

When the time came to pay the bill, Aziraphale looked like he was about to protest. Crowley silenced him with a glare and retrieved a card from his wallet. Not _his_ card; no, the stupid thing still linked to his mostly empty bank account. But the other one, well.

He tried not to think too hard about it when they left the restaurant. Especially since Aziraphale still walked next to him, chatting about other things, safer things, in that warm tone of voice Crowley had come to expect from him.

“Thank you, Anthony,” Aziraphale said at last: soft, sincere.

“No problem,” Crowley said. “I will, uh. See you, Father. Next time.”

“Next time,” Aziraphale said.

His eyes really were very blue, Crowley thought stupidly.

He shook his head. Right. He drank more than he had planned to, and couldn’t drive himself back in the Bentley; the poor thing would have to stay here. Uber, then.

The phone had been on silent, so he didn’t hear the text when it arrived. Now, however, as he retrieved it from his pocket, the screen lit up, displaying the short message.

_Ritz, Crowley? :)_

Fuck. Yeah, that was a slight issue. Every transaction from that particular card sent immediate alerts to its owner.

But that was okay, Crowley told himself. It would be.

If he just figured out how to explain the situation to Lucifer.


	3. Chapter 3

It was easy enough to establish a routine. Weekly or bi-weekly meetings, over lunch or coffee. Crowley hadn’t tried anything as extravagant as the Ritz again. Hadn’t gone to Aziraphale’s sermons, either, even if they occasionally discussed them beforehand. Oddly enough, Aziraphale seemed to genuinely care about Crowley’s opinion.

Halfway through his hateful tirade about the Book of Job, Crowley stared at him suspiciously.

“Surely you have other priests to discuss this with, Father,” he said.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale smiled nervously, eyes darting to and from Crowley’s face. “But it’s different with you. You never seem to want to take anything for granted.”

Crowley sniggered. “The priest who taught religion at my school put it a little differently.”

Not just him, Crowley reflected, mood turning sour. He shifted a piece of lettuce on his plate with a fork and tried to focus on the shape of Aziraphale’s smile instead of grim memories.

It didn’t escape the priest’s attention. Under the weight of his gaze, Crowley felt naked, exposed; he wasn’t used to being studied with such open, non-malicious curiosity. Instinctively, he sat up straighter and made sure the glasses were covering his face.

“Were you planning to pursue religious studies?” Aziraphale asked. “Or become—“

Crowley began to laugh, humorless and unpleasant.

“Definitely not,” he said. “Not for people like me, is it? No, I was going to study astronomy.”

“But you didn’t?” Aziraphale asked gently.

Crowley has to force himself to continue talking. “Not at first. Not right after school. I was—well. Couldn’t afford to, let’s just say.” He felt like he was going to throw up. “I tried to give it a shot last year, but it was just so awkward, see? With all those bright-eyed nineteen year-olds.”

“Come now, Anthony,” Aziraphale said. “That’s no reason not to pursue your studies.”

Maybe it truly wasn’t. Crowley thought back to that time - he had enjoyed classes. Didn’t do too badly on the tests. But there was the ever-present nagging feeling of wrongness about the whole thing. Like it was yet another place he didn’t belong.

Besides, Lucifer started growing restless mid-exam session, apparently something at work stressing him out. He insisted on spending more time around Crowley, claiming that it helped him relax. And, well, Crowley obliged.

He ended up failing one subject. Then another. And then he just sort of—stopped caring. He got a job, but that didn’t work out either, and then a string of other jobs that all, eventually, fell apart.

“And now we’re here,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale put down his napkin and drew his eyes away from the dessert.

“Nothing,” said Crowley. “Thinking out loud.”

“Well, if you want my opinion,” the priest said primly. “It’s never too late to pursue knowledge. Especially if it’s a subject you are passionate about.”

“Who said I am?”

Aziraphale smiled.

“‘Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;   
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.’” He quoted. When Crowley raised an eyebrow, confused, Aziraphale laughed in that self-conscious way of his. “From The Old Astronomer (To His Pupil) by Sarah Williams,” he explained. “I’m afraid a couple of poems is the extent of my knowledge on the subject.”

“Art majors,” Crowley sneered.

“I’m pretty good at maths, actually,” Aziraphale said defensively. He winced. “Have to be. I do the bookkeeping for my shop, you see. If I have the time.”

Crowley tried to picture the unholy mess and cackled evilly.

“Oh, come now,” Aziraphale tutted.

“Is that why you never sell them?” Crowley said.

“I do sell them! Some of them. Occasionally.” Aziraphale gave a weary sigh. “I definitely do need to hire someone to help around, but I haven’t the faintest idea of how to go about it.”

“I could do it,” Crowley said, without thinking.

No—no, stupid. What the hell? Why would Aziraphale trust him, of all people, with those old books he clearly loved? Crowley wasn’t reliable, or trustworthy, or—or anything, really, other than a mess.

He was just about to backtrack on his thoughtless comment, when Aziraphale lit up like the fucking sun.

“Oh, that would be lovely!” He exclaimed, painfully earnest. “If you have the time, that is. We would have to negotiate the wages, of course, but—“

“No,” Crowley said. “I—“

He didn’t want to. Not again. But he couldn’t quite put into words why the thought scared him so.

***

The thing was: Crowley loved that bookshop. It was probably his favourite place to spend time with Aziraphale, who was at his most relaxed and friendliest when surrounded by the dusty old tomes. It was easy to forget that he belonged to the Church and God when he so obviously belonged here, amongst his books, sipping tea from an angel-wing mug that Crowley got him as a gag gift at some point.

Of course, it was hard to get his attention when there were so many enticing words just waiting to be read. He would abandon new deliveries half-way through, engrossed in one of the latest acquisitions; more than once, Crowley had caught him just like this. He hadn’t even bothered to sit down, just stood there, in the warm yellow glow of lamplight, glasses a little way down his nose, blue eyes focused on the text, open face displaying whatever emotion the book in question brought up in him. Upon Crowley’s pointed throat-clearing, he would look up, gaze still unfocused, and then blink several times, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Oh,” he would say. “Sorry—what was that?”

And, if Crowley failed to come up with an interesting answer, he would gravitate back to his book.

Crowley liked watching him read; that wasn’t weird, was it? And—well.

He didn’t want to feel that way about Aziraphale. He couldn’t. The man was too good, too kind, to become a subject of Crowley’s perverted desires. Even thinking about him in such a way felt incredibly disrespectful.

But the thoughts crept up on him either way. In the dead of the night, when he couldn’t sleep; suddenly and without warning at odd times of day; and, worst of all, whenever Aziraphale did something innocent, like smile too brightly, or say pointlessly nice things, or glare at Crowley, only for the glare to relax into something inexplicably fond.

Crowley may or may not have antagonized Aziraphale, grasping at subjects they disagreed about, to distract himself from the thoughts of how badly he wanted to run his hand through Aziraphale’s blonde curls, or kiss the bit of leftover icing from his upper lip.

“None?” He asked in disbelief. “Nothing? Queen? David Bowie? Pink Floyd? Those don’t mean anything to you?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale frowned. “That’s... rock music, I believe. Or maybe punk. Punk rock? I was never clear on the distinction...”

Crowley groaned and threw his head back.

“Do you listen to anything other than classics and church music?”

“Church music can be quite riveting, Anthony.”

“Oh really,” Crowley snapped.

“Just because it doesn’t involve electric guitars and—drums—“

“Well maybe you haven’t  _ heard _ good drums,” Crowley said. “There’s a band performing next Saturday - we could go, if you’d like.”

His throat was dry, all of a sudden.

“To a—rock concert,” Aziraphale raised a careful eyebrow. “My dear boy, that wouldn’t be entirely appropriate.”

“I’ll come to your sermon,” Crowley said in a rush. “Come on, Father. I will be very attentive and take careful notes. And then phone the bishop to tell him how amazingly well you’re doing at making me see the error of my wicked ways.”

“You can’t lie to the bishop, Anthony.”

His tone was gently chiding, and it sent a chill down Crowley’s spine. Oh, of course; Aziraphale would enjoy that, wouldn’t he? Converting a sinner like Crowley to the path of goodness, enlightenment, and heterosexuality would probably aid him in his pursuit of eternal life in Heaven.

“Wouldn’t dare to,” Crowley said coolly. “So?”

Aziraphale was a man at war with himself.

“Oh, all right,” he said. “If you insist.”

***

The bouncer nodded at Crowley, who sauntered by the queue of people with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Mr Crowley,” the bouncer said.

“And guest.”

The man’s lips twitched in a mocking grin when he took note of Azirphale, whose friendly expression betrayed nothing.

“They know you here,” Aziraphale said in a low voice as they made their way inside.

“My boyfriend owns the club,” Crowley said. And some other places besides that, he didn’t add; some other people.

He had learned long ago not to ask too many questions about Lucifer.

Aziraphale looked around, obviously out of place in his brightly coloured old-fashioned clothing. He didn’t remove the scarf from his neck, despite the fact that between the amount of people and the heavy equipment, it was already getting quite warm.

Most patrons had a lot of skin on display, either way. Crowley smirked at the priest’s vaguely scandalized expression.

“Come along, Father.”

They climbed the staircase to the balcony. The view of the stage remained decent, and it was less crowded here.

Aziraphale sank into the chair and looked around, dubiously. Crowley decided to take pity on him.

“I assure you, Father, the band is worth it,” he said. “And most of these people came here to drink and listen.” He smirked. “Just don’t look at them too closely.”

Aziraphale glared.

“Thank you, Anthony,” he said in clipped tones. “Any other advice?”

“Keep an eye on your drink,” Crowley said. “Don’t accept drinks from strangers. Don’t follow anyone anywhere. Don’t grope people if they are dating someone angry and muscular.”

“I think I can manage that much,” Aziraphale said. “How about drinks from the bar?”

“Oh, those are fair game,” Crowley said. “Wait here, I’ll get you one.”

He returned with two glasses of whiskey. Aziraphale accepted his with a grateful smile, having apparently already forgotten Crowley’s advice.

“What did I say?” Crowley snapped when the priest brought the glass to his lips.

“Oh, but you aren’t a stranger,” Aziraphale said, blinking those innocent eyes.

Crowley felt sudden heat in his cheeks, and was glad that the dark, gloomy interior prevented anyone from noticing.

The band didn’t disappoint. They opened with the drums, low and steady, beating a rhythm that reverberated through Crowley’s chest. And then there was the guitar and piano, adding a hypnotic, mournful melody.

Shockingly, Aziraphale seemed quite taken in with the performance.

“They are very good,” he said during the intermission, sipping the second glass of whiskey. He had ditched the scarf at some point, and was sitting comfortably in his light blue shirt, buttoned up tight around his neck and exposing the distinct square white collar.

“Not bad,” Crowley said agreeably. The music had gotten under his skin: he was warm, pliant, his mind a little hazy. Or maybe it was the whiskey. 

Maybe it was Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” said a voice behind them.

Startled out of his pleasant dream-like state, Crowley turned around. And, just like that, reality snapped into sharp focus.

“Hi,” he said, carefully.

There was an edge to Lucifer’s smile that he wasn’t sure how to interpret. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your guest?” Lucifer asked when the silence grew uncomfortable. His voice was as ever: calm, collected, self-assured.

He had no reason to feel uneasy; none at all. Crowley forced his rebellious muscles to relax.

“Right. Right,” he said. “Uh. This is Father Aziraphale. Father, this is Lucifer.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Aziraphale said, smiling. He toyed with the ring on his finger, telegraphing his nervousness for all to see.

In contrast, Lucifer stood motionless, head held high, his amber eyes gazing between Aziraphale and Crowley, an enigmatic expression on his face.

“Likewise, Father,” he said smoothly. “Mind if I join you?”

Crowley shifted over, making more space on the couch he had been sprawling on. Lucifer took a seat beside him, elegant as ever; they were close enough for their thighs to press together. When he leaned back, Crowley felt Lucifer’s arm drape over his shoulders.

“Didn’t know you’d be here today,” Crowley said.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Lucifer said. “Work is hell, as usual.”

The weight of his attention unnerved Aziraphale. Or maybe it was the arm around Crowley’s shoulder, obviously possessive. He had almost wanted to slip free; it had to be making the priest uneasy, them flaunting their relationship like that—

“Relax,” Lucifer murmured in his ear, the heat of his breath chasing a pleasant shiver down Crowley’s spine.

Of course; he was being stupid. They weren’t doing anything untoward. They had no bloody reason to be ashamed of themselves. If Aziraphale had a problem, well, he’d have to deal with it.

“Anthony told me you’re the owner of this establishment,” Aziraphale said neutrally.

“Anthony?” Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

Very few people used that name; Crowley generally preferred to go by Crowley, but—but.

Aziraphale frowned, and tried to smile. “It is your name, isn’t it?” He asked Crowley.

“Uh. Not really,” Crowley said. “Neither is Crowley, though. But either is fine.”

He winced. That was a discussion for another time.

“How are you enjoying the show, Father?” Lucifer asked. Idly, he began to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, his other hand reaching for Crowley’s glass of whiskey.

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale said.

He wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression was studiously polite, more guarded than Crowley had ever seen it.

“Lovely,” Lucifer repeated, amused. 

Certainly wasn’t the word Crowley would have used, but that was no reason for mockery, was it?

“Stop that,” he murmured in Lucifer’s ear. 

That stilled the fingers in Crowley’s hair; Lucifer’s gaze was on Crowley, coolly assessing.

“Of course, darling,” Lucifer said, after a very long pause. “I wouldn’t want to be rude to your guest.”

They settled back as the band continued to play.

Aziraphale excused himself shortly afterwards. Tomorrow was Sunday, he said; early morning sermons, a wedding afterwards. Crowley considered stopping him, opened his mouth to say something—but Lucifer had said his goodbyes and was now studying him intently.

Then, when the priest was gone, Lucifer began to laugh. It wasn’t a very nice sound.

“What is it?” Crowley asked.

“I just didn’t expect that from you,” Lucifer said. He resumed toying with Crowley’s hair, his lips close to the tattoo on Crowley’s cheek.

That wasn’t an answer; he waited, tense, for Lucifer to explain.

“Leading a priest to temptation—that’s a grave sin, isn’t it?” He felt the sharp, cruel smile against his cheek. “Or an impressive accomplishment. Depending how you look at it.”

Crowley’s blood ran a little colder.

“I’m not—I’m not trying to seduce him,” he said.  _ He wouldn’t want me, anyway— _

“But he  _ does  _ want you, darling,” Lucifer murmured. “Whatever you’re doing is working.”

“I’m not  _ doing _ anything,” Crowley said. 

He wasn’t—he  _ wouldn’t.  _ His soul might be rotten beyond redemption, but he wasn’t going to drag anyone down with him; he wasn’t so far gone as to want  _ that _ . Especially not Aziraphale, who was one of the few genuinely kind people Crowley had ever met.

Aziraphale didn’t deserve it. And he, Crowley, knew that. He was just too selfish to give him up—

“You want revenge,” Lucifer said quietly. “It’s understandable. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

But there  _ was _ . And Crowley—Crowley had already pushed his luck when it came to Aziraphale.

It would be better, for both of them, if he left him alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Unsafe BDSM practices

Crowley picked up Azirphale’s call with the intent of refusing him. He had an array of excuses already prepared, ranging from mundane to outlandish. As soon as he heard the priest’s enthusiastic voice, however, all the protestations died on his tongue.

They strolled through the art gallery, and Crowley wondered: was it true? Lucifer claimed Aziraphale wanted him. A concept that might be dismissed as outlandish, but Lucifer was seldom wrong about people. He tried to steal discrete looks at the priest, but he was absorbed by the exhibit and, luckily, did not notice that Crowley was only half paying attention. 

After that, Aziraphale made several suggestions that Crowley found himself incapable of turning down. So, eventually, he stopped picking up his calls. It was easier that way.

Easier, but dull and lonely; he missed spending time at the bookshop, trying to make sense of the priest’s cataloguing system, or at various events around town. But, well, he had gotten along just fine long before he met Aziraphale. He would be fine now, too.

***

Crowley wasn’t fine. 

He stared down at his phone, which had just now stopped vibrating. Aziraphale’s name still flashed on the screen, then faded. Crowley grabbed his plant mister and set to work, spraying the plants with water and insults alike. Half more hour of this and he could go back to studying.

Then, about two hours later, there was a knock on his door. Crowley went still, a textbook on his lap, glass of wine dangling precariously from his fingers. Lucifer had keys, didn’t he? It was  _ his _ apartment, Crowley just lived here. And  _ he _ never bothered knocking, if he came here at all.

Crowley forced himself up from the gaudy throne-like chair and sauntered to the front door. Then he peered through the peephole, to check if that was someone he would be better off ignoring.

It was Aziraphale.

Crowley went very still. Then he wrenched the door open, not bothering with the chain.

“How do you know where I live?” He asked.

“Anthony!” Aziraphale beamed at him. Then, gradually, his smile faded. “Oh dear… I do hope that wasn’t too forward of me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…” he went on, flustered. “You stopped the cab by this building when we were coming back from theatre that one day, and one of your neighbours directed me to your apartment.” He smiled faintly. “It’s the collar. People tend to find me trustworthy.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “If that’s the old lady from downstairs, she’s probably hoping you’ve come here to exorcise me.”

“Why would I—” Aziraphale said, before he realized Crowley was being sarcastic. “Well. Never mind.” He cleared his throat, suddenly serious. “My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, Anthony. It’s just that—I haven’t heard from you in three weeks. I was worried something had happened.”

Crowley felt his throat tighten. “You were worried about me?” He asked, a little uncertainly.

“Of course,” the priest said, his cheeks tinged a faint pink. “All of a sudden, you stopped answering me. I feared the worst.” His warm smile melted through all of Crowley’s anxiety and misgivings. In a quiet, soft voice, Aziraphale continued: “I’m glad to have been wrong, my dear boy.”

The calls—yeah, maybe it had been thoughtless of him. Maybe.

“Listen, about that—“

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Aziraphale rushed to say. “If you would rather I stopped trying to contact you—well. I understand.” 

“No, no—“ Crowley began awkwardly. He rubbed his forehead and leaned against the doorframe. “Sorry, Father. There was just—stuff I had to deal with.”

_ Just tell him it’s over _ , a voice said.  _ Tell him he’s better off without you. You both know that’s true. _

Aziraphale looked down at his folded hands and then back, at Crowley’s face. His smile was forced, his voice uncertain.

“Again, I apologize for the intrusion, Anthony,” he said. 

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Crowley said. He absolutely hated to see the priest this miserable. “Uh—would you like to come in? If you’d just give me a moment—“

“No! No. You’re busy, and I’m here without invitation or arrangement—“

“I literally  _ just  _ invited you—“

“Thank you, Anthony,” Aziraphale said, with a touch more confidence. “But I really must be going. Do—do let me know if you want to go out some time.”

He gave Crowley one last, fleeting smile. Then he was gone.

***

Crowley drove to the bookshop even more recklessly than usual, Queen blasting from the speakers. It was a miracle he didn’t crash into anything.

He managed to park the Bentley and then sat inside for several long minutes. It began to rain - of bloody course it had - the raindrops beating a staccato rhythm against the hood. Pedestrians were rushing for cover or pulling out umbrellas. Crowley didn’t have one, as he was too frantic when leaving the house.

Okay. Okay. It was just Aziraphale. His - almost - friend. Crowley might not have had a lot of experience having those, but he could manage  _ one _ . 

He exited the car and carried the crate of wines carefully before him. Rain splashed on his head and shoulders, utterly ruining his hairdo, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, was there?

“Anthony!” Aziraphale called out. He was rushing towards Crowley, an umbrella in hand, to cover him the last few steps to the warm, enticing light of the bookshop.

Crowley’s heart lurched. 

“Hi,” he said. “I brought wine.”

“Yes, I can see,” Aziraphale said. “Do come in.”

It was meant to be a quiet evening in. Nothing interesting was happening in London - at least, nothing that caught their attention - so Aziraphale suggested having a glass of wine at the bookshop. Crowley was unable to refuse him anything, as usual.

“So what have you been up to?” Aziraphale asked, pouring them both a generous glass of Riesling. 

Crowley made himself more comfortable on the priest’s cozy armchair and contemplated his answer.

“Trying to resume my studies, actually,” he said. “I contacted the department and they are willing to give me another chance.”

“That’s lovely!” Aziraphale said with a brilliant smile.

“Humiliating, is what it was,” Crowley said under his breath.

“But it will be worth it,” Aziraphale said. 

“If you say so,” Crowley shrugged. “Not that I have much else to do with my time.”

Not since he lost his last job, anyway. He was back to square one these days, one hundred per cent reliant on Lucifer, which was—well. Less than ideal.

But the prospect of going back to university was exciting. He couldn’t remember the last time he was actually, honestly looking forward to something that had nothing to do with Aziraphale.

“I am happy for you, Anthony,” the priest said, sounding like he truly meant it.

Crowley made a noncommittal noise in response and polished what was left of his wine.

“How about you, Father?” He asked. “What have you been up to?”

Aziraphale turned out to be expecting a delivery - first editions from some private collection that he talked about for solid thirty minutes, the enthusiasm in his voice never wavering. Afterwards he became quite flustered, apologizing for his outburst, and Crowley teased him good-naturedly.

The evening wore on, cozy and pleasant. Crowley had  _ missed  _ this. He didn’t even realize how much. Maybe he had been a fool to try and keep away - they were just talking, after all. There were no commandments against it. That wasn’t a sin.

It was the warmth blossoming beneath his skin, that left him sprawled boneless on Aziraphale’s chair, unable to tear his eyes away from the kind, expressive face. He realized that he could listen to the priest for hours, regardless of what he talked about. 

“Hmm?” Crowley asked, trying and failing not to spill wine on the table.

“Next Sunday,” Aziraphale repeated patiently. “The Bishop will come to my sermon. And then we shall have tea.”

“You hate him,” Crowley guessed.

Aziraphale’s blue eyes widened. “My dear boy, I would  _ never _ —“

“He hates you,” Crowley nodded. It was such a stupid, irrational thought. He scoffed. “Doesn’t matter what he thinks. S’ probably a wanker.”

Now Aziraphale looked shocked.

“Anthony, you can’t say things like that!”

“Right, right. Sorry,” Crowley squinted at his glass. “My bad. He’s  _ holy _ , right, which makes him beyond criticism—“

“You don’t even know him!”

Aziraphale was getting genuinely worked up over this, as if he was about to witness Crowley getting dragged into Hell right then and there. As if  _ that  _ was still up for debate.

Crowley flopped down on the worn couch, next to the priest. He managed to refill both of their glasses without spilling.

“I reserve the right to call anyone a wanker, Father,” he said seriously. “If he proves to be one. So? What are you going to talk about?”

He should have gone back to his chair. He  _ should _ . But it was so far away, and Aziraphale was right here—

The priest was watching him very carefully. Then he swallowed, nervous all of a sudden, his eyes darting away.

“I was actually hoping you’d be there,” he said. “And tell me what you think.”

Crowley scoffed at the thought - Sunday mass. All that—stupid, pointless rituals. Stupid, pointless  _ rules  _ that dictated most of his life. He  _ hated  _ those rules, most of all because he knew, deep-down, that he would never be free of them.

But it wasn’t about that, was it? It was a friend, nervous about looking foolish in front of a supervisor. 

“Why do you care what I think?” Crowley asked quietly.

“Anthony—“ Aziraphale began, his voice warm, soft—it fell like music on Crowley’s ears. The priest was watching him openly, without reservation, all the nervousness suddenly forgotten. His blue eyes traced the lines of Crowley’s face, his tattoo, his  _ lips— _ it wasn’t quite a caress, neither of them had moved an inch, but it  _ felt  _ like one.

But—he was  _ close _ . He was looking at him in such a way that Crowley knew, without a shadow of doubt—it was  _ real, _ he hadn’t imagined it, God only knew how or why but Aziraphale—Aziraphale felt something. For him; for Crowley. 

He moved before he realized, heady with anticipation, drunk on the discovery. And,  _ oh _ —their lips met, soft as a breath, not quite a kiss—but already it made him light-headed.

For the briefest moment - a glorious, wonderful moment - he felt Aziraphale’s lips against his own, and the lightest pressure. The barest hint of an answering kiss, soft and hesitant and quietly searching. 

But it must have been his imagination. Aziraphale startled, and moved back. He wasn’t meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“You—“ he began hoarsely, then coughed and continued in a steadier voice. “You must have misunderstood me, Anthony. This isn’t—“ a shadow seemed to pass over his face. Yet he continued to say: “This isn’t right.”

The words struck sharply between his ribs, stealing his breath away. 

_ Of course it isn’t. What were you thinking—you vile, twisted creature—you— _

“Right,” he said. “Of course.”

Numbly, he stood up. That was it. He ought to say something more, offer an, an apology or something.

He couldn’t.

***

Crowley sobered up a little bit for every step that he took, and there were a lot of steps. Only when he was knocking at the door to Lucifer’s apartment did he even realize he had come here at all.

“Crowley?” Lucifer asked.

For a moment, Crowley didn’t know what to say. He never came here unannounced. Surely Lucifer could read the guilt in his face; surely.

But he needed him. He didn’t know  _ what  _ he needed, but he needed  _ something. _

Lucifer didn’t protest when Crowley backed him against the wall, still incapable of forming words.

“What do you want, Crowley?” Lucifer asked in-between lazy, thorough kisses, his hands resting possessively on Crowley’s hips.

Crowley shuddered. He didn’t know how to ask for it in a way that wouldn’t sound like it came straight from a cheap porno. But he needed—he needed to stop thinking about Aziraphale, his guilt. Just—stop thinking altogether.

“Hurt me,” he said, shifting closer, placing himself in Lucifer’s hands.

He felt the curl of Lucifer’s smile, the edge of his teeth set sharply against Crowley’s neck. He felt his nails dig into flesh, and the sharp pinprick of pain as they very nearly broke skin.

“Oh, darling,” Lucifer said. “Thought you’d never ask.”

It was almost too much; almost. His skin burned, his muscles twitched and ached in Lucifer’s unrelenting grip. And Lucifer smiled, pleased, at every pained gasp that escaped from Crowley’s lips, every bruise that formed on his body, every weak, half-hearted attempt at freeing himself.

No, he didn’t have to think anymore. He couldn’t. Nothing  _ mattered _ , not truly--

Crowley’s eyes snapped open, rapidly, when he felt pressure on his windpipe. Lucifer’s warm, strong hand was curled around his neck, the other one securing Crowley’s wrists far above his head.

“What—” he gasped, unable to say anything else. He could still draw air into his lungs, but barely; his chest expanded, but there was not  _ enough _ air, not nearly enough—his thoughts scattered in panic, and he shuddered violently, trying to shake off the hands holding him down—

“Relax,” Lucifer said. “Give in to me, Crowley. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”

His tone was quiet, commanding. And—and he had saved Crowley’s life once already; he had done so much for him; he had taken him in when nobody else would, and—

Crowley fought, desperately, against his body instinctive responses. It thought he was in mortal danger, but he wasn’t; not truly. Lucifer wouldn’t hurt him. He could trust Lucifer.

Slowly, and with great effort of will, Crowley managed to relax. He was still on edge, the burn in his lungs nearly overwhelming him; dark spots danced before his eyes. He was feeling oddly light despite it all, thoughts turning foggy, sluggish—but—it was okay. He was safe.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Lucifer said gently, warmly, brushing sweaty hair from Crowley’s forehead. “You can trust me.”

He loosened his grip. Crowley gasped for breath, and his head spun wildly with the sudden excess of oxygen.

But he remained where he was, breathing heavily, while Lucifer kissed the bruises forming on his neck.

Yes. Safe.


	5. Chapter 5

As Sunday drew nearer, Crowley grew restless. 

Aziraphale had invited him and then technically never rescinded that invitation. It might be safer to assume he never wanted to look at Crowley again. But maybe he had been so drunk he didn’t even remember it, and would be hurt if Crowley ignored him from now on? Maybe.

Crowley swore.

It was useless to wonder. He’d have to do the, the mature thing and call him. Or something.

The thing was: he really didn’t want to.

Like the coward he was, Crowley ended up not calling. He went to church that Sunday, anyway, hovering in the shadows near the entrance, and then left shortly before the mass ended.

Aziraphale caught up with him in the parking lot, where Crowley was trying to enjoy a cigarette without much success. He had picked up smoking because it seemed to fit the sort of person he was pretending to be, but never quite developed a taste for it.

Now, hastily, he dropped the half-finished cigarette and ground it beneath the heel of his shoe. At the priest’s pointed, reproachful gaze, he bent down and lifted the butt between thumb and forefinger, theatrically depositing it in the nearest bin.

“Happy, Father?” he asked.

After a moment, Aziraphale smiled. 

Fuck. His smile broke something inside Crowley; it was a ray of sunshine, bursting through the clouds. But it wasn’t  _ meant  _ to be making him feel things. It wasn’t meant for him. That was just Aziraphale, and his inner goodness shining through. Love for all humanity, even the darkest parts of it. It was Crowley’s own fault for interpreting it the way he did; and then doing what he had done.

“Uh, listen,” Crowley began, awkwardly. “About that night--”

Aziraphale’s eyes betrayed his worry, but he tried to keep on smiling. “Ah. Yes. Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “We have had quite a bit to drink, haven’t we?” He nervously met Crowley’s gaze. “Don’t worry about it, Anthony. It doesn’t matter.”

_ It matters to me _ , Crowley wanted to say. 

This was the best he could have hoped for though, wasn’t it? Under the circumstances. Aziraphale didn’t hate him, wasn’t disgusted by him. Without a doubt, this  _ was  _ the best possible outcome.

He didn’t want to get emotional in a Church parking lot, so he fixed his sunglasses in place and pushed the offending thoughts from his head. 

“That wasn’t a bed sermon, Father,” he said, a touch of mockery to his voice. “Heard worse.”

“Highest praise, coming from you,” Aziraphale said drily.

Crowley smirked.

“I have questions, though,” he said. “About--” 

He stopped talking, rapidly, frozen in place. Seeing his reaction, hearing the muffled curse that escaped Crowley’s lips, Aziraphale glanced anxiously over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he said, in a tight voice. “Your Excellency--”

The bishop was a tall man, broad across the shoulders, with a square jaw and the smile of a movie star. He wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of a magazine, Crowley thought glumly. His every movement projected an aura of self-confidence. Here was a man who never thought he could be wrong.

But it wasn’t the bishop who caught Crowley’s attention. No, it was the woman next to him - dressed in her Sunday best, with her hair pinned up high, rather severe make-up on her face. 

“Erm, right,” Aziraphale was saying. “This is--His Excellency the Bishop Gabriel, and his sister. And this--”

“Oh, but we do know each other,” Michael said mildly. She smiled at Crowley, but her eyes remained cold and distrustful. “Raphael, wasn’t it?”

For a moment, Crowley was speechless. Why would she-- _ how  _ did she know this name? Why use it? What else did she know about him?  _ Why? _

After the questions came the anger, and resentment. And all the memories he had been trying to distance himself from.

“It’s Anthony, actually,” he said icily. 

“Oh?” Michael raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. 

Both Aziraphale and Gabriel looked between them. Crowley could feel the disapproval in Gabriel’s appraising gaze, from the shoulder-length hair, the snake tattoo, black leather jacket, all the way to the tight jeans. 

“I wasn’t aware you know each other,” the bishop said. 

“We have never been properly introduced,” Michael said. “I presented a case against--” she paused, a touch of disgust entering her voice “--a mutual acquaintance, shall we say.”

“And you lost miserably,” Crowley said, smirking. 

He hadn’t been present at the trial, as it had happened before he had first met Lucifer. Everything he knew about the woman in front of him, he knew from Lucifer himself, and it essentially boiled down to:  _ Don’t trust her. Don’t talk to her. She will use it against you _ .

The memory of her failure steeled Michael’s gaze. She was no longer pretending to be civil. “Hardly a cause for celebration,  _ Raphael _ . Lucifer is a dangerous criminal--”

“Which you haven’t been able to prove,” Crowley said. “Despite a considerable effort on your part.”

“Because he terrorizes people into silence,” Michael said coldly. “Because he employs lies, threats, blackmail, and bribery. And because his legion of brainwashed followers does whatever he tells them to.”

“So which is it?” Crowley asked. “Loyalty and terror are mutually exclusive.”

“Are they?” Michael tipped her head to the side. “You know him better than I do. Tell me, then-- _ which is it _ ?”

Aware that he had already said too much, Crowley remained silent. 

“Surely you are exaggerating, Michael,” Gabriel said, frowning. “If he were a criminal, as you say, he wouldn’t have walked free.”

“In a better world, he wouldn’t have had,” Michael said. 

“What is it he had been accused of?” Aziraphale asked quietly. 

Crowley stared at him in disbelief. Aziraphale didn’t sound in any way surprised, and he had  _ met  _ Lucifer. True, Lucifer wasn’t the kindest of men, but--well--he wasn’t as evil as Michael painted him out to be. People generally weren’t.

Worst of all: Crowley had assumed Aziraphale would be on his side. As if he had any right to expect that.

“There is a very long list of crimes Lucifer has been linked to,” Michael said. “Without much success. He  _ collects  _ people - plucks them out of prison, crushing debt--” She paused, staring pointedly at Crowley. “Or right off the street, after they had been kicked out of their homes by disapproving parents.”

Maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t make the connection. Crowley desperately hoped that would be the case. But he could already see the realization dawn in the priest’s sorrowful eyes - and the horrible, humiliating,  _ pitying  _ gaze that came with it.

“It’s good to know you people are against charity if it’s directed at those you don’t consider worthy of it,” Crowley said, praying his voice would remain steady. “Which chapter is that from, exactly?”

“What he does isn’t charity,” Michael said. “You should know this better than everyone.”

Crowley laughed, then. He had been referred to as Lucifer’s whore more times than he cared to count; the words lost their bite over the years. And they weren’t even  _ true _ . If sex was what Lucifer wanted, he could have bought it more cheaply elsewhere.

Besides, Crowley had been the one to approach him, all those years ago. Not the other way around. This was, however, the very last subject he might ever discuss with the three people in front of him.

“Look, Michael,” Crowley said. “I know you want to win a case against him. It would be a fine addition to your record, wouldn’t it? Might even earn you a promotion.” He smiled, hoping the smile conveyed his contempt. “But you’re wasting your time if you think you can get anything from me.”

“Well, I doubt you’d have much to contribute either way,” Michael said. Crowley bristled at the dismissal, but it was too obvious a trap to fall for. “You might be interested to know, however, that Lucifer got you fired. Behind your back, and on several occasions.” 

She watched him very carefully, waiting for her words to sink in. Crowley kept his face impassive, or what he hoped was an unaffected expression.

Bloody nonsense, all of it. He didn’t care, because there was nothing to care about. What reason did Lucifer have to sabotage him? What could he possibly stand to gain, other than Crowley’s continued dependance on him?

“Erm--”

Crowley shivered at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. He had momentarily managed to forget the priest’s presence. It all came crashing back now: his stupid past, exposed carelessly and without his consent. And it wasn’t as if he wanted to lie about it, it was just--he didn’t want to be looked at like  _ that _ . Least of all by Aziraphale. 

The priest had talked to him like an equal. He listened, as if what Crowley had to say was worthy of attention. So long as he saw Crowley as whole, Crowley could continue to act like he was.

But the cracks were there, and always had been. There was no hiding them anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Extremely dubious consent.

After everything that happened, Crowley thought he deserved a few days of sulking and drinking in solitude. He still went to lectures and worked on his assignments, but resolved to keep human contact to minimum. Because what good was it, honestly? 

Someone up there - and Crowley had a fairly good idea who - clearly hated him. His phone rang, and then rang again. If this was Aziraphale, Crowley would have ignored him. Lucifer, however, didn’t like being ignored.

He drove the Bentley across crowded London streets, cursing the traffic, Michael, and very nearly God Herself. But that was a line Crowley wasn’t ready to cross.

There was space for him in the underground parking lot. This was also one of the few places where the Bentley didn’t stand out at all - might have been outclassed, even. The cars tended towards sleek, modern design, but there were a few vintage models that made Crowley feel a tad jealous on behalf of his Bentley. 

He rode the elevator to the top floor and was buzzed in. Lucifer greeted him briefly and then disappeared in his office, leaving Crowley to wander his apartment.

He had been here many times before. Now, however, it struck him how empty the place was. The floor was dark, polished concrete; so were the walls. There were floor-length windows with a truly magnificent view of Thames and the city, and light fixtures that lit up the bareness of the space.

Oh, Lucifer had plenty of high-end equipment: in the kitchen, the bathrooms, living room, indoor gym. It was all well-designed and very expensive, but felt no more lived-in than an exposition in a luxury furniture store. Crowley’s apartment might have been a smaller replica of this place, but he had his plants, and the few artworks that caught his fancy, and the growing pile of books Aziraphale insisted he should read, despite Crowley’s disdainful protestations that he didn’t read books. The office was the only room in the apartment Crowley was unfamiliar with. Lucifer never said so explicitly, but he knew he wouldn’t be welcome there. 

Today, however, Crowley felt—eerie. The empty, lifeless rooms creeped him out. Michael’s allegations still clung to the back of his mind. He missed the warmth and clutter of Aziraphale‘s bookshop, and he missed the priest himself.

So he knocked on the closed door, and then entered, not bothering to wait for permission.

At the intrusion, Lucifer raised his head sharply. He was sitting behind a desk, two laptops and an extra screen in front of him. 

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Lucifer said, an edge to his voice.

“You asked me to come here,” Crowley pointed out.

The odd feeling persisted. He realized his mouth was dry, that there was an open chasm where his stomach should be. His fingers twitched.

Lucifer leaned back in the fancy black leather chair and leveled him with an icy look.

“I am aware,” he said. “There’s something I need to finish first.”

“Right,” Crowley said.

He didn’t leave. 

There was a security camera in the room, a testament to Lucifer’s paranoia, and cupboards, shelves, and bookshelves, all stacked with papers and various equipment. It looked like an office; not that unusual for a man who owned a nightclub and was a shareholder in a number of companies. 

And that was just the stuff Crowley knew of.

“Crowley,” Lucifer said quietly.

Crowley shivered, although he didn’t fully understand why.

“Right,” he said again.

He went back to the kitchen and found a bottle of whiskey. His hands shook as he opened it; some of it splashed on the counter as he filled in a glass.

The alcohol burned his throat, in a mostly pleasant way. It helped ease the tension that gripped his muscles. Funny, that; he hadn’t even been aware he was tense in the first place.

For several long minutes, Crowley contemplated going home. He didn’t know why he didn’t. It would be awkward to explain, probably. But—

Lucifer was standing in the doorway, watching him. Crowley nearly dropped the half-empty glass; he hadn’t heard him move.

He set the glass down very, very carefully.

“Did you get me fired?” He asked.

That wasn’t what he had meant to ask at all. But the words had gnawed at him for two days, ever since Michael put them in his head. They were out in the open now; Lucifer could laugh them off, deny them—and then Crowley could pretend to believe him.

But Lucifer only said: “And what if I have?”

Crowley was speechless.

“You talked to Michael, didn’t you.” That was a statement, not a question; how the fuck did he know that? “I thought I told you she cannot be trusted.”

“I—yes. But  _ why _ ?”

“Why get you fired?” Lucifer’s voice was patronizing, as if Crowley was a particularly dense child. “Oh, come now. That job was stupid and pointless, and didn't even pay well. Why keep it?”

Crowley stared at him.

“I don’t understand why you are so upset,” Lucifer said, with genuine confusion.

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “I guess it wasn’t the best job in the world. I just liked having my own money.”

Lucifer sighed, impatient.

“Not this again,” he said. “Crowley. I have more money than I know what to do with.” His expression turned contemptuous. “Money’s  _ easy _ . I never understood why people make such a fuss about it.”

“No,” Crowley said quietly. “I don’t suppose you would.”

He had Lucifer’s full attention now, and regretted it.

“What else did she tell you?”

Crowley swallowed. 

“It isn’t about what she said. I’m not—look. I hear things. About you. About what you do—and some of them are—“

When it was obvious Crowley wasn’t going to finish, Lucifer smiled.

“None of it bothered you before,” he said. “It didn’t bother you when you were buying a car, or taking that priest of yours to fancy restaurants.”

Lucifer shouldn’t be talking about Aziraphale. No. That scared Crowley more than his own hypocrisy. And he was coming closer; Crowley realized he was backing away from him only when his back hit the concrete wall.

He couldn’t suppress a shiver when he felt the proprietary grip of Lucifer’s hands on his hips.

“Did he fuck you, at least?” Lucifer asked.

Crowley glared at him.

“Oh, don’t be a prude,” Lucifer laughed. His breath was searing-hot on Crowley’s cheek; his hands began to wander. “When you so obviously want him to--”

“Shut up,” Crowley hissed.

“Or maybe it’s the other way around,” Lucifer’s voice was softer, sweeter. He began to palm the front of Crowley’s jeans, and Crowley jerked away at the contact, but there was nowhere to go-- “How do you like to imagine it, darling? Would you like to fuck his pretty mouth? Spread him apart--”

“Don’t,” Crowley shuddered, gripping Lucifer’s forearms. His eyes had fallen shut; his breaths were coming in harsh and uneven. And Lucifer was  _ laughing _ , the bastard, before pressing a wet, hungry kiss to Crowley’s neck.

Crowley didn’t want to think about Aziraphale right now. He didn’t want to think about his smile, his eyes, the touch of his hands; how it might feel to kiss him, to want him and be wanted in turn--he wondered about what Aziraphale might enjoy, what sorts of sounds he could make, if he’d still remain kind and proper even when falling apart around Crowley, or inside him, or--

His belt loosened and clattered on the floor. Lucifer was undoing his zipper, his fingers creeping beneath the waistband of Crowley’s boxers, teasing the skin of his rapidly hardening cock.

“He isn’t here,” Lucifer said, pushing Crowley further against the wall, crowding him. “Do you think he might like to watch? Your dear Aziraphale?”

Crowley grabbed his hand and tried to stall his movements, but it was useless. His treacherous cock lay fully hard in Lucifer’s grip as he began to pump it in earnest, the way he knew Crowley liked it--and he didn’t  _ want  _ it to feel good, but it  _ did _ , it was heat and pressure, and then slickness, lube Lucifer produced from who knows where--his hips twitched, even as his grip on Lucifer’s arm tightened.

“Stop,” he whispered. “No--”

“Relax, darling,” Lucifer murmured, increasing the pace. “You can tell me all your sins. I won’t judge you.”

“No--”

He felt Lucifer’s lips against his own; unyielding, demanding, until Crowley submitted to him. And, oh, it was sweet, Lucifer  _ could  _ be sweet when he wanted to. When Crowley had earned it.

It was sweet, now. Overwhelming, humiliating  _ pleasure  _ \- of being held and stroked just so, of the hungry kisses and the warmth of another’s body, surrounding him so completely. It set his nerves alight, it was  _ too much _ , but Lucifer wasn’t stopping.

What he wouldn’t give to be with Aziraphale right now. To touch him like this, or to be touched; he didn’t know anymore what he wanted, just that he  _ wanted _ .

“Tell me,” Lucifer said. “What happened between you two.”

Crowley thought back to that day. To that brief, wonderful moment, half-imagined, as Aziraphale kissed him back. Before he realized what he was doing, who he was with, that Crowley wasn’t worth eternal damnation.

“Nothing,” he said, and then gasped. Lucifer twisted his hand, sending a jolt of pain through Crowley’s pleasure-addled mind. “Nothing happened, I swear--”

“But you wish it had.  _ Tell me _ .”

“I--” he didn’t know what to say. What would make things right again--what would make Lucifer let him go. “I’m--sorry.”

Lucifer’s voice softened. “I know, darling. But I’m going to need more than that.”

“No--”

Crowley’s protestations died on his tongue. He wasn’t trying to push Lucifer away anymore, he was merely holding onto him as Lucifer jerked him off, hard and fast.

His climax, when it hit, felt like it was being wrung out of him; it  _ hurt _ . For the longest time, Crowley couldn’t catch his breath. Would have fallen on the floor, probably, if Lucifer wasn’t pressing him tight against the wall.

When he finally opened his eyes, Crowley realized Lucifer had been watching him. Like one might watch an insect pinned to the table. But then the weird sensation passed, and Lucifer stepped back, granting Crowley some space.

“I still have plans for the evening,” Lucifer said, off-handedly, as Crowley tried to sort out his clothing. “Don’t bother with it.”

Crowley stilled.

“Listen--”

Lucifer silenced him with another deep kiss, his hand burying in Crowley’s hair--tugging at them, just enough to draw a startled gasp out of Crowley’s mouth.

“I missed you, darling,” Lucifer said softly. “I missed having you here. Humour me.”

His eyes were cold, but his voice was kind. His touch was gentle. It was worth it, Crowley had learned long ago, for those moments of genuine intimacy. That brief flashes of peace and contentment, all the more precious for how hard they were to come by.

Lucifer didn’t push him away in disgust. Lucifer didn’t feel tainted by the touch of Crowley’s hands. Maybe that was enough.

“That’s right,” Lucifer murmured. “Don’t worry,” he smiled. “You will enjoy this.”

Crowley couldn’t tell anymore, if this was a promise or an order. He supposed it didn’t matter.


	7. Chapter 7

The bookshop was open.

Warm yellow light spilled from its windows onto the wet pavement. The weather lately really was playing into every damn stereotype, Crowley thought, trying to ignore raindrops falling rhythmically onto his head. There was still time to turn back; still.

He went in.

There was Aziraphale, amidst the clutter. Standing between the shelves, with a book in his hands and round, old-fashioned reading glasses perched on his nose. The lamp behind him lit up the halo of his near-white curly hair. He didn’t notice Crowley; he never noticed anything when he was like this, utterly enraptured by whatever he was reading.

Crowley didn’t know how much time had passed before Aziraphale raised his bright blue eyes to him.

“Oh! Goodness, Anthony,” Aziraphale fixed a bookmark in place and gently shut the heavy tome. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You have a bell,” Crowley said, opening the door to demonstrate his point as the bell jingled.

Aziraphale blushed. “Yes. Indeed. I’m afraid I am easily distracted.”

“It’s a wonder no one has robbed you yet,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked around.

“There’s a sad lack of appreciation for dusty old books nowadays, even among thieves,” he said drily. “The most they attract is insurance agents, who like to discuss how flammable they are.”

Crowley tried to see what Aziraphale had been reading but couldn’t make out the cover.

“Do you have any customers?” he asked.

“No,” Aziraphale said happily. “I could lock up and we shall have tea in the back room, how about that?”

“Tea,” Crowley repeated.

“It’s two pm,” the priest said. 

Crowley sighed, resigning himself to a cup of tea.

They chatted amiably about nothing for a while. Crowley felt himself relax. Up until the moment when the priest set down his cup and looked at him more carefully.

“I have to say,” he began. “I didn’t expect to see you here so soon, after—well. I’m glad!” He added hastily, when he saw Crowley tense. “It’s always lovely to see you my dear, it’s just—“

“Did Michael tell you anything else?” Crowley cut in.

Aziraphale’s frown deepened.

“Not as such, no,” he said quietly. “We talked - the bishop, Michael and I. I didn’t mean to pry—“

“It’s fine, Father,” Crowley said, impatient.

“Anthony—or. Erm.”

Crowley decided to take pity on him.

“Anthony J. Crowley. My legal name. Hasn’t always been, but it is now. And you can call me whatever.”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh and glowered at the cup of tea, desperately willing it to become something stronger.

“Yeah. She’s right. My family kicked me out,” he said. “I changed it shortly after. Didn’t seem right to use the name they have given me, see?”

Gently, Aziraphale said: “You don’t have to talk about this, Anthony. Not unless you want to.”

“I do want to,” Crowley said. “Better you hear it from me than whatever judgemental bullshit Michael likes to spread around… anyway.” He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t that bad. I waited until I was eighteen to tell my family I’m queer. Wasn’t sure how they were going to react.” The silence, Aziraphale’s expression: it was all a terrible weight upon him, and he laughed, bitter and broken. “Guess I know now. But hey, smart of me to wait! Smartest thing I’ve done. Maybe.” He hated his voice for cracking at this very moment. “Other times I think that maybe they would have taken pity on me if I was legally still a child.”

It was painfully obvious Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. Besides, the sound of his voice might shatter whatever grip Crowley still had on himself, so he continued talking.

“Anyway. I didn’t really have anywhere to go, so I came to London. And it was pretty rough before Lucifer found me. Gave me a place to live in, and some money. If it weren’t for him, I’d—well.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “And in exchange for his help?”

Crowley was speechless for a moment.

“That’s not a very nice suggestion to make, Father,” he said. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, his mouth set in a grim line. “But how old were you, when you started sleeping together? How old was  _ he _ ?”

“Here comes the divine judgement,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “We were both adults, Father. I know you’re required to disapprove of our relationship—“

“That’s not—” Aziraphale shifted, uncomfortable.

“What is it, then?” Crowley said. “Or is it me that you disapprove of?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, expression stricken.

“Anthony—“ he began slowly. “I—obviously I can’t approve of your lifestyle choices, but—“

He trailed off; honestly, there wasn’t anything else to say. 

“Lifestyle choices,” Crowley said, in a different voice altogether. “Right. Of course.”

This was just about what he should expect from a religious man. What he  _ had  _ been expecting. There was no reason for the words to hurt as much as they did.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He desperately wished he had been wearing his sunglasses, if only so that he could avoid Aziraphale’s gaze without being too obvious about it.

“I’m worried about you,” the priest said, a little awkwardly. He was fiddling with the ring again, his expression troubled.

“A waste of your time, Father. I’m headed straight for Hell,” Crowley said.

“That’s not true.”

“Yes. It is,” Crowley sneered. “God hates the likes of me, am I right?”

“God loves all of Her children,” Aziraphale said gently. “Even if you doubt everything else, don’t ever doubt that.”

Crowley let out a derisive laugh but didn’t refute the ridiculous statement.

“Anthony.” The blue eyes were suddenly on him: intense, but not judgemental. Kind, even. In the world where kindness was in short supply, Aziraphale stood out like a beacon. And Crowley kept circling back to him, trying to share in that light that he might not deserve, but could not help but want. “What happened to you was--it was horrible. No one deserves to go through that. I hope you know it.”

He would laugh again, but no sound escaped the tightness of his throat.

“But--are you sure this man has your best interest at heart?” Aziraphale asked.

The moment was gone, thank whomever. Crowley could speak again.

“I was sure before,” Crowley said icily. “About my family. About God. Just goes to show how much my judgement’s worth.”

Aziraphale  _ didn’t get it _ . He  _ couldn’t _ . There was no point in explaining things to someone who would never understand--who had too much, who had never lost  _ everything _ , all at once. Whose life hadn’t come crashing down around him, while the world continued to turn around for everyone else, oblivious and indifferent. And--Crowley didn’t wish this on him, he didn’t wish this on anyone, least of all Aziraphale. Who was  _ good _ . Who was  _ kind _ .

But, for him, being good was easy. Natural. And a part of Crowley couldn’t help but hate him for it.

***

He didn’t stop visiting, of course. 

They steered clear of heavy topics from then on, too absorbed in the mundane. Crowley ranted about Uni and his classes and his classmates. Aziraphale carefully didn’t rant about his fellow clergymen, but there was tension lurking beneath his friendly exterior. He seemed to relax in Crowley’s company though, especially if they went out for lunch. Crowley wondered about that but didn’t have the guts to ask.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to.

***

The bell jingled. Aziraphale looked up and nearly dropped the heavy tome he was holding.

“Oh,” he said. “Your Excellency--”

Crowley turned around sharply. But, no, it wasn’t a manifestation of Aziraphale’s anxieties: Bishop Gabriel really was there, in person, trying to look friendly but not bothering to mask the fact that it took a lot out of him.

“Aziraphale!” he said. His expression tensed when he looked at Crowley. “You.”

Crowley treated him to his brightest smile. Nervous, Aziraphale stepped between the two of them.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“You may, as a matter of fact,” the bishop said graciously, as if he was doing Aziraphale a favour. “I’m looking for an old document--”

The longer they talked, the more suspicious Crowley became. Et voila, his suspicions were confirmed when a very flustered Aziraphale disappeared in the back room, and the bishop immediately turned towards him.

“You still appear to be here.”

“The boxes will not unpack themselves,” Crowley nudged them with his foot. “Wanna lend a hand, Excellency?”

The look on the bishop’s face was sufficiently scandalized.

“Goodness,” he said. “It’s bad enough that Aziraphale wastes his time on this ridiculous bookshop. He doesn’t need you, flaunting your presence for all to see.”

Crowley’s smile was so wide it made his jaw ache.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked.

The bishop shook his head and clapped his hands together. 

“This is a bit of a situation,” he said, with a well-faked self-conscious little laugh that was meant to underscore that he, a very important man, was about to deliver news he really didn’t want to deliver, but had to for the benefit of all. A heavy burden he was going to shoulder bravely. “Aziraphale’s position is precarious. Surely you must realize that. And you do him no favours by letting yourself be seen in his company.”

Crowley nodded sagely.

“If I cared about him, I would leave him be?” he guessed.

“Exactly!” the bishop brightened and clapped Crowley on the shoulder with such force that his knees buckled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Sure,” Crowley said.

He had a biting remark on the tip of his tongue but before he could voice it, Aziraphale reappeared. 

“I am tremendously sorry, Your Excellency, but the document you requested--”

“Never mind that,” Gabriel said smoothly. “I shall have to look somewhere else, shall I?”

After he was gone, Aziraphale blinked.

“Goodness, that was odd,” he said.

Crowley snorted.

“Nah,” he said. “He got what he wanted.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes were on him. “Which was?”

“I think the bishop’s worried I might turn you gay,” Crowley said. 

Whatever answer he expected in response to that, it certainly wasn’t a completely indifferent shrug.

“No, he isn’t,” Aziraphale said.

Of course he wouldn’t believe Crowley. Of course.

“Why, because he’s such a saint?” he asked sharply. “Because I would lie to you about it?”

Aziraphale picked up the tome he had been reviewing earlier and went back to work.

“No, Anthony,” he said, eyes glued to the page. “Because you can’t turn me into something I already am. And he knows it.”

It took a while to make sense of the words. A good long while, which Crowley spent staring at the priest, opening and closing his mouth like a particularly dense fish.

His final, intelligent comment was: “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I  _ heard  _ you, all right,” Crowley said. “I’m just--what?”

There was an unmistakable blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley couldn’t  _ stop  _ staring, even as the priest stubbornly avoided his gaze.

“Have you finished cataloguing, my dear? I do thank you for your help, I can’t stress this enough--”

Still numb, Crowley shook his head. 

And, eventually, Aziraphale couldn’t avoid him anymore. He raised his blue eyes, gleaming above the rim of his reading glasses, and held the book to his chest as if he meant to shield himself with it. It was anyone’s guess what was he trying to shield himself from.

“There isn’t much to talk about,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’ve always been--attracted to men. So long as I don’t act on that attraction, however, I suppose I can keep myself free of sin.” He smiled; it was feeble, and pale, and a shadow of his usual smile. “That never used to be so hard before.”

It was too much for Crowley to process all at once. He couldn’t  _ think _ .

“You can’t just  _ say  _ things like that,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

“I really shouldn’t, should I?” Aziraphale’s tone was wistful. And--God, the way he looked at Crowley--

It wasn’t fair. 

But, after the moment was gone, it was so easy to pretend that it had never happened. Easy. To go back to books, and sushi, and pastries. Easy to believe Crowley had imagined it all.

_ Easy. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm. Okay. I screwed up.
> 
> I didn't do any research prior to writing this fic and sort of automatically assumed every religion is like the Catholic Church (which is the dominant religion where I'm from and therefore one I'm most familiar with). As it turns out, though, the Church of England (which Aziraphale was supposed to be a priest of) actually allows priests to enter into same-sex civil partnerships. So Aziraphale's internalized homophobia and the stuff with Gabriel make very little sense.
> 
> I am very happy to learn I was wrong, mind you! But for the sake of the plot of this fic, let's just... ignore all that, shall we? Maybe Aziraphale is Catholic after all. Maybe.
> 
> As a result, this chapter is delayed and a bit messy. Huge thanks to everyone who continues to read this work despite it being all over the place! :D

It occurred to Crowley that they were cuddling. He could scarcely remember the last time they did anything of the sort. But, well, they were done having sex, weren’t they? And Lucifer didn’t leave the bed. Neither did Crowley, although he wasn’t sure if he even could.

The sheets were black silk, because of course they were. By this point they were a little damp from their combined sweat but Crowley didn’t mind that, either. He tried not to move too much, lying on one side, his back exposed to the chilly air. So long as he stayed in this position, he didn’t feel much more than an almost pleasant soreness of his muscles, and the tiredness slowly threatening to overwhelm him. 

Lucifer was lost in thought, his gaze unfocused, having seemingly forgotten Crowley’s presence.

“I’m going to Manchester this weekend,” he said out of the blue.

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” Crowley said, cracking one eye open. 

“Why would I be?” Lucifer asked.

He turned, the full focus of his gleaming eyes suddenly on Crowley. And he shifted, reaching out, movements sure and purposeful as ever.

His fingers brushed the skin of Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley couldn’t suppress a full-body shudder that ended with him curling slightly inwards, as if to protect himself… but this was ridiculous. The hand was simply  _ there _ , warm and heavy, and uncharacteristically gentle. Ever so slowly, Crowley began to relax beneath its touch.

“There’s a man there,” Lucifer said, his voice a low murmur. “Who thinks he can get away with embezzling my generous donations.”

“So, what? You have to go there in person to warn him not to do that?”

“No,” Lucifer said. “I already know he’s dishonest and untrustworthy. Why waste time on warnings?”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. Lucifer was watching him, quite calm. Bored, even. Surely he didn’t mean--

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I'm not going to kill him,” Lucifer said. “I am simply going to withdraw my support.”

So it wasn’t that bad; it couldn’t have been. Crowley forced himself to relax. Besides, Lucifer was still stroking gentle patterns onto Crowley’s skin. Such blatant displays of affection were rare for him, save for moments like these. Crowley was almost glad for everything that happened prior to now. It left him boneless and exhausted; now his body demanded rest.

“I would send Beelzebub, but apparently the matter requires my personal attention,” Lucifer sighed. “Travelling is such a hassle… although I suppose there isn’t much to do in London, either.”

“You should get a hobby,” Crowley said sleepily.

Usually when Lucifer laughed it was because something mildly unpleasant was about to happen to somebody else. Now, however, it sounded as if he was genuinely amused.

“Like what? Knitting? Scrapbooking?” Lucifer asked. The mirth in his voice subsided. “What are  _ you  _ doing this weekend, darling?”

“Studying. Math exam next week,” words were hard, and Crowley was tired. “M’ taking Aziraphale to Greenwich on Saturday. The Planetarium.”

“The Planetarium,” Lucifer repeated. Something about the tone of his voice made Crowley’s heart beat faster. “Whatever for?”

“I like them,” Crowley said. “And he’s never been.”

Talking about Aziraphale was probably a mistake. Like most mistakes, he recognized it as such when it was already too late.

“You spend a lot of time with that priest.”

“Well, yeah. We’re friends.”

Lucifer pressed his thumb down - onto one of the deep, red welts he had left on Crowley’s back. The pain was sudden and sharp; a pathetic whimper escaped Crowley’s lips. Surely there wasn’t going to be more, was there? He wasn’t sure if he could handle anything more--

“I pushed you too hard, didn’t I?” Lucifer’s voice was sympathetic. 

He moved his hand, tracing the criss-crossing pattern of welts. The muscles of Crowley’s back went taut, stretching the abused skin. It would hurt less if he managed to relax, but whenever he tried to draw a deeper breath he found himself choking on it instead.

“‘s fine,” Crowley gasped. “Fine--”

“I  _ did _ ,” Lucifer went on. “But you took it so well, my darling--so very well.” His lips were inches from Crowley’s ear, his hand unrelenting. “Almost as if you thought you deserved it.”

Crowley screwed his eyes shut. It was a childish display of cowardice, really, but so long as he couldn’t see Lucifer’s face, it was easier to believe that Lucifer couldn’t see  _ him _ . He wouldn’t see anything he weren’t supposed to--

“I know guilt when I see it,” Lucifer said. He pushed firmly on Crowley’s shoulder; continued pushing until Crowley stopped resisting him and let himself be manhandled. 

Lucifer had him as he wanted him: flat on his back, their combined weight adding agonizing pressure to the wounds on Crowley’s skin. Crowley gritted his teeth but couldn’t stop the pathetic whimper; couldn’t avoid looking at Lucifer when his face was inches away, hovering above him, his breath burning like a brand on his skin.

“I think you cheated on me, darling,” Lucifer said. “Or you wish you have. Which is basically the same thing according to the precepts of your religion, isn’t it?”

Through the haze in his mind, Crowley managed to mumble, “Matthew, chapter 5, verses 27 and 28.”

Lucifer loosened his grip, eyebrows raised in confusion. “What?”

“What you just said. You’re right. About the adultery,” Crowley said. “But I did not cheat on you.”

Lucifer smiled. The sight made Crowley shiver.

“You would have. If he’d have you.”

“He’ll never have me. He thinks it’s a sin,” his voice broke. “He doesn’t want me—no one wants me.”

Softly, Lucifer said: “Except me.”

“Except you,” Crowley echoed.

Crowley was torn between arching off the bed to lift his back and burrowing deeper inside it, to get away from the strange, hungry look in Lucifer’s eyes. He tried to calm down. He had to—he was being unreasonable. If he fought, if he struggled, Lucifer might decide he wasn’t worth the hassle after all. And then Crowley would have nothing, and no one.

Again.

***

“Can’t believe you’ve never been,” Crowley said. “How long have you lived here, exactly?”

“Almost my entire life,” Aziraphale said, looking around. “I’ve been to the museum, of course.”

There was a short queue before the entrance. Eventually they went inside and took their seats. Lights went off; it was complete, utter darkness, save for the faint glow of the “exit” sign. Then the presenter began to talk, slowly lighting up the faux sky above them with a scattering of stars.

“You don’t get this view anywhere else in London,” Crowley said under his breath and was gratified to hear a soft laugh in response.

It was brilliant. The lecture itself was a background noise to the spectacle of the night sky. Besides, Crowley had listened to his fair share of lectures already. Aziraphale, meanwhile, soaked up new information like the true bookworm he was. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice how often Crowley sneaked a look at him, to watch the stars reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes.

The show ended and they were forced to return to the outside world. Fortunately it was a nice, moderately sunny day, so they took a lazy stroll down the green hills.

“That was lovely,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “Thank you.”

Crowley shrugged.

“I hope you won’t get in trouble with the bishop. Over being seen with me.”

Aziraphale tensed. “I thought what he said didn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t,” Crowley lied.

The priest was looking at him with wide, helpless eyes.

“I am truly sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to listen to that sort of thing.”

“But it’s the exact sort of thing you say, too.” A bitter note crept into Crowley’s tone. “Is that what you’d say to a teenager if they came out to you?” One look at Aziraphale’s guilty expression was enough. “Well, fuck.”

“Listen--”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Crowley waved his hand. “Your morals, am I right? Just strikes me as a bit hypocritical.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked stubbornly ahead.

“It’s not just about  _ my  _ morals, Anthony. The Church doctrine is quite clear. I can’t pick and choose parts of it and still consider myself a member.”

“Just following orders, are you?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale flinched as if he had been struck. He stared at Crowley, wordlessly, blue eyes huge in his pale face. Oddly enough, Crowley felt no vindictive satisfaction at the sight. As he opened his mouth to apologize, however, memories sprang to mind: priest at the confessional, and his stern voice as he told him to repent for his sins. His family’s faces as they kicked him out. All of a sudden he felt utterly drained.

“I just thought you’d have more empathy,” Crowley mumbled.

He was staring at the ground at his feet, and then straight ahead, at the National Maritime Museum they were slowly approaching. Because he couldn’t bring himself to look at Aziraphale, he didn’t notice that the priest reached out and placed his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. He  _ felt  _ it though; the sharp, piercing pain, that had him let out a hiss and flinch away from the touch, long before his brain registered what was happening.

“Oh!” Aziraphale paused. “Oh. I--apologize. I didn’t mean--”

His voice trailed off. He removed his hand, awkwardly, and laced his fingers together, shoulders hunched forward, nervous,  _ scared _ . He must have thought his touch was unwelcome, Crowley realized; must have assumed Crowley hated  _ him _ , personally. Hence the overreaction.

“No, it’s--” Crowley swallowed. “I’ve been, uh. Scratched my skin. Still smarts a little.”

The look of relief on Aziraphale’s face quickly gave way to alarm.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m  _ fine _ , Father,” Crowley said, exasperated. “A minor injury, nothing more.” 

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced. Before he could start fretting, Crowley rushed to say: “Come on, I still need to do some studying today. I’ll drive you home, okay?”

They made their way to the Bentley and then drove back to Soho. The silence should have been awkward, but wasn’t; for all of their differences, it seldom was. Aziraphale still looked mildly alarmed whenever Crowley exceeded the speed limit or changed lanes too abruptly, but wisely didn’t say anything until they parked in front of the bookshop. He did leave the car with a relieved sigh, though.

It felt weird to say their goodbyes out on the street so Crowley followed him inside.

Once the door was shut and they were alone, Aziraphale asked: “Are you quite certain you’re alright?”

“Yes,” Crowley said.

After a moment’s hesitation: “Can I see your back, then?”

Crowley was speechless.

“Gotta say, Father,” he said, throat dry. “You’re doing yourself no favours by asking another man to undress in front of you.”

Instead of getting flustered, as he had hoped, Aziraphale scowled at him.

“You tend to use dark humour as a defense mechanism, don’t you.”

“Oh, all the time.”

There was a hint of colour on the priest’s cheeks. Or maybe it was just the warm lights of the bookshop that gave the illusion of it. His eyes, however, remained serious.

“Has Lucifer done something to you?”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but found out he couldn’t. He couldn’t  _ lie _ . It wasn’t just that Aziraphale was a priest, and Crowley had been conditioned to be honest with them. It was  _ Aziraphale _ . Despite his hypocrisy, his slavish obedience to the rules he didn’t even believe in, Crowley couldn’t help but consider him sort of a friend.

His continued silence was damning enough.

“Oh, Anthony,” Aziraphale said softly.

“It’s  _ nothing _ ,” Crowley repeated. He could feel his face flaming. “He’s a little rough, but that’s it. Some people like that sort of thing.”

“Do you?”

Crowley scowled. Every excuse he had lined up and ready suddenly deserted him. It was astonishing how much easier it was to lie to Lucifer than to Aziraphale.

“I don’t mind it,” he said.

He wasn’t some poor, helpless victim. Most certainly didn’t want Aziraphale to see him as one. Besides - in this particular case, he deserved Lucifer’s ire, didn’t he? For all his protestations, Crowley was basically cheating on him at this point, even if it was never more than a treacherous thought slithering across his brain.

But that was all right. He would repent, and be forgiven. That’s how it was supposed to work, wasn’t it?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some flashbacks in this chapter, and I continue to do absolutely no research. So feel free to point out any mistakes, I'm open to criticism!

_ Contrary to popular opinion, Crowley wasn’t stupid. He knew shady stuff went on at the bar. He overheard enough to realize he probably didn’t want to know more.  _

_ What he was, however, was curious by nature. He watched. He asked.  _

_ Beelzebub was the second in command. They didn’t look it: small, scrawny, permanently bored. Crowley had only properly met them once, when he came to ask about a job. Without much hope, mind you, but the guys he had met said that if he didn’t have anywhere else to go, he might as well try here. _

_ Beelzebub watched him fumble his way through a job interview, utterly unimpressed. Then, to Crowley’s shock, they went out to make a brief phone call and hired him on the spot. _

_ It wasn’t a bad job. At first. Crowley was still barely old enough to work at a bar, and unfortunately looked it. Whenever the drunk clients tried anything, however, a staff member was always there to stop them. _

We are a family _ , Dagon had said.  _ We have no one but one another. Of course we will watch out for you.

_ It was early afternoon. Not many clients, so Crowley was permitted to tend the bar alone. As he saw Hastur and Ligur take their seats, however, he almost regretted it. Hastur had been imprisoned some years back, Crowley recalled. Arson. Mr Lucifer had got him out, proving his innocence in court, but Crowley thought he could still smell the smoke on Hastur’s clothing whenever he came too near him. _

_ They stared at him, unfriendly, when Crowley poured them both a glass of scotch. _

_ “You’ve been snooping,” Ligur said with a nasty smile. _

_ “Unwise,” Hastur added, lighting a cigarette, utterly uncaring about the “no smoking” sign hanged above the bar. “The boss doesn’t like snitches.” _

_ “I’m not a snitch,” Crowley said. _

_ “Why all the questions, then? You writing a book or something?” _

_ Crowley glared at them. _

_ “None of your business,” he said haughtily. _

_ “Not yet,” Hastur took a deep drag. The tip of the cigarette glowed red. “Pray that it never is.” _

_ Hastur was an asshole. What else was new? And Ligur was a cop, which made Crowley trust him even less. _

_ He wanted to leave the two men to their drinks and go to the back room, finish unloading crates of bottles. It wasn’t not a bad job, as it let him pay for a bed in cheap hostels around town. Just not exactly what he had pictured himself doing at eighteen. _

_ “Crawly,” Hastur called out. _

_ “Crowley,” Crowley said automatically, trying to cover his irritation. It was useless; they got it wrong every single time, probably on purpose. It was a dumb name, anyway, and he almost regretted choosing it. _

_ “The boss wants to see you,” Ligur said. _

_ Crowley froze. “Uh. Why?” _

_ The men laughed, nastily. “Dunno. Ask him yourself.” _

_ “Sure,” Crowley said. _

_ He tried to cover how nervous he was but probably wasn’t very successful. They pointed him upwards, where the staircase lead to private booths. He had never been there before; wasn’t told not to, but assumes it wasn’t allowed.  _

_ The entire club was grim and poorly lit. The upper levels were just as dark but more spacious, and much nicer. Crowley looked around himself curiously, taking note of the modernistic furniture, the lack of artwork on the concrete walls, the security cameras. He appreciated the music even if he didn’t appreciate the decor. _

_ Beelzebub sat in one of the booths, a pile of papers and an old laptop on the table in front of them. And, in the opposite seat, was Lucifer himself. _

_ He was handsome, Crowley thought immediately. It was a guilty, shameful thought, the kind he wasn’t supposed to be thinking. He tried not to fidget under the cool, unreadable gaze of the man’s eyes. Tried not to stare at how perfect his face was, how pristine his suit and posture. _

_ “You must be Anthony Crowley,” Lucifer said. His voice was hypnotizing; it took a moment for Crowley to realize he should respond. _

_ “Just Crowley, sir.” _

_ “Crowley, then.” _

_ He hadn’t yet gotten used to the name. And it sounded different when Lucifer said it, when he addressed Crowley as he wanted to be addressed and didn’t take the opportunity to make a stupid joke.  _

_But then he started asking questions, and Crowley hated answering them. _Where does he come from? Where does he live? It doesn’t matter_, he wanted to say. _None of it matters._ He was here, now, he was ready to do whatever job they put him up to, and then he would go--where? To the cheap, smelly, overcrowded hostel, where he shared a room with twenty other guys and got robbed on the regular? Back to the train station, the bridge, the rundown buildings with the junkies and the squatters?_

_ He held Lucifer’s gaze and said nothing. _

***

“I got a job,” Crowley said one day over lunch, and was immediately gratified by the way Aziraphale lit up at the news.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah,” Crowley snorted. “Let’s hope my boyfriend doesn’t cheat me out of this one, right?”

He stirred more sugar into his espresso and took a long sip. Good stuff, good stuff. Only when he raised his gaze did he notice Aziraphale was staring at him.

“What?”

The priest set down his cutlery - up until this moment he had been one hundred per cent focused on the food, and the expression on his face could only be described as sinful. But now, it seemed, Crowley had his full undivided attention.

“You are strangely calm about this,” Aziraphale said carefully.

“What else should I be?”

It was useless trying to argue with Lucifer. And besides, it wasn’t as if he had a good reason to, was it? That job had been nothing to write home about. He had more free time after he got fired, and an access to one of Lucifer’s bank accounts. It was just--it felt  _ nice  _ to have something Crowley could consider his own.

He jabbed at his salad without much enthusiasm.

“Did he explain why? Or apologize?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley opened his mouth to say  _ Yes, actually _ , but found out he couldn’t. That wasn’t what happened, was it? Now that he thought about it, that conversation with Lucifer ended like so many others: with him realizing after the fact that none of his questions have been answered and that the only one apologizing for anything was Crowley himself.

His silence went on for too long.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping my boundaries here,” Aziraphale said, “but have you ever thought about leaving him?”

Crowley looked at him sharply, then tried to laugh it off.

“He owns the apartment I live in,” he said.

“You could move.”

“With what money?”

This was a shitty, horrible reason to stay with someone, Crowley thought. Aziraphale must have thought so too, because he said:

“This is not a good reason to stay with someone.”

“Yeah, well,” he said. “Maybe so.”

And then the priest’s voice softened, his gaze tender and-- _ loving _ , dear Lord, Crowley hated this man so much--”I don’t think he’s good for you, Anthony. I don’t think he’s good for anyone.”

And Crowley thought:  _ You’re wrong. He has been good to me _ .

***

_ They didn’t meet again for the next two weeks. Then Beelzebub told him the address, and Crowley went.  _

_ It was bloody Mayfair. Crowley didn’t belong here with his tattered clothing and the backpack that contained all of his earthly possessions. But that was where they told him to be, and so here he was. _

_ He climbed the staircase and knocked on the door.  _

_ “Enter,” a voice said. _

_ It was Lucifer. He was alone in a spacious, modern flat, all dark walls and concrete. _

_ “Nice place,” Crowley said. “Do you live here, sir?” _

_ Lucifer cast him a strangely pleased look. “It is mine, but I am not using it at the moment,” he said. “You could live here, if you’d like.” _

_ Crowley stared around in stunned silence. _

_ “What--” _

_ “You don’t have anywhere else to go, don’t you?” _

_ “But that’s--I can’t afford to,” he stammered. _

_ “Don’t worry about the money, Crowley,” Lucifer said. He tossed the keys and Crowley snatched them, instinctive, staggering backwards as if he had been handed something of actual, physical weight. _

_ “But--” _

Where is the catch _ , he wanted to ask.  _ There’s gotta be a catch. _ Crowley wasn’t that stupid, or that naive. _

_ The doors closed behind Lucifer. He was alone. For the first time in months, he was  _ alone  _ and  _ safe  _ between four walls. It was a little chilly here; he walked the length of the corridor, the small kitchenette, the bathroom, the bedroom.  _

_ As he sit down on the bed, his breath hitched. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, properly slept, on a mattress and between clean sheets. Couldn’t remember what it was like to fall asleep without his valuables clutched tight close to him, trying to ignore the discomfort, the nagging feeling that once he woke up he would either get mugged or arrested. He  _ couldn’t _ . _

_ There were tears running freely down his cheeks. He didn’t try to stop them; he no longer had to hide. He was  _ safe.

***

His phone buzzed during the quantum mechanics lecture, knocking his brain off course. He swore, which wasn’t unusual among the audience as the subject was pure Hell, and glared at the screen.

Lucifer. Great.

Normally he would leave the room and pick up; Lucifer didn’t appreciate being ignored. But--but. Crowley sent a quick text instead, and tried to focus. In the laughably short time the professor moved miles away from where he had just been. By the end of the period Crowley’s brain threatened to leak out of his ears. 

The answering text was simply this:  _ Come over. _ It was an invitation, not an order; or, at least, that’s what Crowley chose to interpret it as.

By the time he got to Lucifer’s apartment it was fairly late and he was dead on his feet. Between the lectures, the labs, and the new job, he was already behind on his sleeping schedule. The last thing he wanted was a night at this place. 

“Hi,” he said as he entered the living room.

The atmosphere was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Lucifer was standing by the window, staring down at the city, the way he stared down at everyone and everything--

“Hello, Crowley.”

His tone was cold, clipped. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Crowley said. 

There was more he had to apologize for. So much more - he had spent the weekend packing up bags, for example. Not everything, only the bare essentials, stuffed into the trunk of the Bentley. He owned the car even if he had paid for it with Lucifer’s money, and he felt better having something prepared. Just in case he ended up on the street again.

Most of all, however, he had to apologize for Aziraphale. 

_ There is a small apartment above the bookshop _ , Aziraphale had told him one day with a shy smile.  _ You could stay there for a while. Until you found your own place. _

“Listen,” he said. His mouth was dry. “We need to talk.”

Lucifer turned away from the window to look at him instead. Crowley shivered and took a step back, immediately cursing his own cowardice.

“Talk.”

“I, uh,” Crowley began. 

He didn’t come here planning to have this conversation - or did he? He didn’t even know anymore.

“I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me,” he said. “But I don’t think I can stay here. Not anymore.”

Lucifer didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. Really there was no reason why Crowley should feel coldness creeping up his spine, seizing his throat shut.

“Because of the priest?” 

“Because of a lot of things,” Crowley said hoarsely. “But--yes. Him, too.”

“You imagine yourself in love,” Lucifer said. “You got some empowerment out of that stupid job--”

“I am in love,” Crowley interrupted him, which he  _ shouldn’t have done _ . “And I  _ am  _ sorry. About that, in particular. But that’s not all of it--” the words were coming out in a rush. “It’s  _ you _ . So many people are terrified of you, and I’m thinking that I should be, too.”

“You’ve been listening to Michael,” Lucifer said derisively. “I  _ help _ people, Crowley. I help them more effectively than your pathetic little priest could ever dream of.”

“But you don’t care about them,” Crowley said. “You don’t care about anything. Not the cases you win, not the crimes you commit, not the lives you save or ruin…”

His hands were trembling. He pressed them to his face, trying to calm down. 

“I know you don’t care about me, either,” he said. 

Lucifer bared his teeth in a smile. “Because you know me so well?”

“I don’t. I really don’t,” Crowley said. “I’ve met Aziraphale a few months ago and I feel that I understand him better than I understand you after several years.” 

He had to get a grip on himself. Had to stop talking about Aziraphale, too, because he couldn’t miss the way Lucifer’s expression darkened at the sound of his name.

There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room, Crowley thought stupidly. Really. There was no other explanation for the way his throat closed up; for why he couldn’t seem to draw enough air into his lungs. He backed away a step, then another, grateful that he was closer to the door than Lucifer was--

“Stop,” Lucifer said.

Crowley froze immediately. But--why? Why was he so terrified? Lucifer was coming closer, which was a bad idea altogether. If he touched him now, Crowley would lose whatever nerve he still had, would trip over his own feet trying to apologize and win back the man’s forgiveness. Even now, his instincts were screaming at him to do just that.

“No,” he said. “I’m leaving.” 

At that, Lucifer paused. He was calm now - his calmness was like the sky before the storm. The silence of the world holding its breath in anticipation of the first strike of thunder.

“And why is that?” Lucifer asked.

“You can’t,” Crowley began. “You can’t buy people with your favours. Not really.”

Very softly, Lucifer said: “I bought you, didn’t I?”

Crowley turned around.

“We’re done,” he said.

He took one step, then another.

“Crowley.”

He paused, but couldn’t force himself to turn. 

“We are done when I say we are done.”

Crowley shook his head and all but fled the apartment, heart in his throat, anticipating Lucifer’s brutal hands, hauling him backwards, down on the ground by his feet, where they both believed him to belong--

But, no - he was out on the street. The Bentley was where he had left it. Crowley held onto the cool, metal roof of the car, and tried to stop shaking.

He was alone. Well and truly alone. Lucifer didn’t follow him.

Not yet, anyway.

***

_ He probably shouldn’t be drinking with a man twice his age, Crowley thought. Shouldn’t, but couldn’t help it; Lucifer had invited him to his private booth and ordered him a glass of Scotch. The kind he hadn’t tasted since the last time he had snuck it out of his parents’ liquor cabinet. _

_ The music today was amazing. Or maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, warming him from within. Maybe it was the brand new haircut, the clothes he had bought earlier that week with the money Lucifer had lent him. Maybe it was the man himself, handsome, charismatic, generous; the way he talked to Crowley, the way he listened, without judgement or condemnation. _

_ Realizing he had said too much, Crowley stuttered to a stop.  _

_ “Have you ever done what they accused you of?” Lucifer asked. At Crowley’s blank look, he clarified: “Been with a man.” _

_ Crowley could feel his cheeks redden. _

_ “No,” he said. “It’s wrong.” _

_ Lucifer began to laugh. It was the first time Crowley had ever seen him do that.  _

_ “Damn. You really do believe that, don’t you?” _

_ “Of course,” Crowley said. Then he added: “I’m not going to stop anyone from doing whatever they want, mind you. It’s just--I don’t want to.” _

_ He looked away, towards the stage. He didn’t want to look at Lucifer, at his face, his lips, his hands; he didn’t want to get caught in his own lies. _

_ “Such a waste,” Lucifer said. “To taste the punishment, but not the crime.” _

_ Crowley shrugged, feigning indifference. He could feel a strange, tingling sensation on the back of his neck, the sudden dryness of his throat. He took a gulp of the whiskey and nearly choked on it. _

_ Of course the sin was appealing. Therein lay its danger. Crowley had sat through enough sermons to understand as much - and now every argument was lined up and ready inside his head. Alas, he found out he couldn’t voice any of them. _

_ “It isn’t fair, is it?” Lucifer said quietly. “You have done nothing to deserve what has been done to you.” _

_ His eyes began to water, but Crowley was stubborn. The alcohol left behind a pleasant, burning sensation; he didn’t care much for its taste but he appreciated the way it set his head spinning. _

_ “But you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Lucifer said. “No one here cares what you dress like, what you want to be called, who you sleep with. You don’t have to maim yourself to fit whatever impossible standards they have set for you.” _

_ It did sound nice. And his voice was so even, so reasonable; much closer now, Crowley realized. _

_ “Their rules don’t matter, Crowley. Their sins are made up to control you and the absolution they offer is worthless.” _

_ “That’s not true,” Crowley said, wishing his voice sounded stronger. _

_ “Isn’t it?” _

_ Crowley flinched when he felt a strange, foreign sensation on his cheek, startling him out of the drunken stupor. It was the man’s hand; warm, gentle hand, cupping the side of his face. It sent his heart into a wild staccato, his blood boiling--and it was damning enough, the way he couldn’t help but want more of this touch, this voice, this smile. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly. _

_ Surely Lucifer could read the guilt in Crowley’s face. Surely he could see his unnatural desires, and would be disgusted by them. _

_ But Lucifer only smiled. _

_ “Whatever for?” _

_ Crowley couldn’t force himself to say it. Couldn’t look him in the eyes, even, for fear of seeing that same revulsion he had once seen in his parents’ faces. _

_ What he felt instead was the warm, soft pressure of the man’s lips against his own. Crowley froze, mind utterly blank.  _ It’s wrong _ , he wanted to scream; but he couldn’t move. _

_ Lucifer deepened the kiss, holding Crowley’s face between his hands; but Crowley managed to draw back, breathless, head spinning.  _

_ “No,” he said. “Wait—“ _

_ Lucifer paused. The scent of his expensive cologne was overwhelming Crowley’s senses. Or maybe it really was the whiskey - it was impossible to think. Impossible to remember all the reasons why he should want to stop. _

_ “I know you want this, Crowley,” Lucifer said. His voice was like honey, heavy and sweet, slipping in between the cracks of Crowley’s resolve. “Give in to me.” _

_ Crowley couldn’t lie anymore. Not about his desires, his weaknesses; not to this man. All he could do was surrender. _

***

Crowley had no idea if Lucifer was planning revenge, or what form it might take. He spent the next few days holding his breath and looking over his shoulder, constantly on his guard. The only upside was that Aziraphale was out of town - which was partially why Crowley chose that particular time to have that particular conversation.

Aziraphale was coming back, however. And Crowley - Crowley spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in his bed. He had remained in the apartment in Mayfair, since Lucifer hadn’t kicked him out yet, and began looking for affordable places to rent in London, of which there were exactly zero.

London was impossible, honestly. Why did anyone want to live there?

He closed his laptop and began pacing the floors. He couldn’t  _ wait  _ to see Aziraphale again - because, yeah, he was man enough to admit that he was in love. Maybe not man enough to admit it to the face of the one he was actually in love with, but the truth was already out there. A terrifying, wonderful truth--

He stopped, abruptly.

Aziraphale was back. Today. In London.

Aziraphale--

Crowley ran.

It was a bloody miracle he didn’t crash the car with how narrow his vision was, how jerky and abrupt his movements. He couldn’t seem to focus on more than one thing at a time, couldn’t  _ think-- _ because he was so stupid,  _ how could he be so stupid _ , oh God, please, don’t let  _ anything happen to Aziraphale, God, please,  _ I know I have no right to pray anymore, _ but please-- _

He heard the sirens long before he realized what they meant. Pulled over to let the fire truck through, as did everyone else in his lane. He watched the blinking lights drive through the crowded streets, towards--towards Soho--and he saw the orange glow, distinct even with the million of lights lighting up the London sky--

Crowley drove. He didn’t kill himself or anybody else, so maybe God was still watching out for him - but, no, he was not arrogant enough to believe that. If he didn’t get where he was going, he wouldn’t have to deal with what had happened. That would be true mercy.

But he did get there. He got there just in time to watch the bookshop burn.

Flames were eating through the old structure. The firemen struggled to contain them, keep them from spreading; people were shouting; a lot was happening. 

Crowley slammed the door of the Bentley, left it right there on the street, and ran. They may have tried to stop him; probably did. But the bookshop was  _ on fire _ , and Aziraphale was  _ inside. _

He ran. He ran into the inferno. He watched the bookshelves, the old tomes, everything, as the flames ate through it all, insatiable, unstoppable. On some level he knew he was in pain, but it hadn’t yet quite registered - he looked around, shouted,

“Aziraphale!”

Wondering if maybe, just maybe, he could be heard over the roar of the flames.

A jet of water tore through the open window and hit him square in the chest. Crowley fell back, onto the charred wooden floor, looking up at the flames already licking the ceiling. There were cracks in the plaster - soon enough it would collapse here, burying him--

“Aziraphale.”

He would sob but it was too hot for tears. Crowley struggled to sit up, his fingers brushing something square - a book, leather-bound, not too badly damaged. He stared at it stupidly - it couldn’t exist here, nothing could exist in this place--nothing--

Arms were grabbing him, hauling him outside. Crowley didn’t resist. He held onto the book as they dragged him onto the street. Every inch of exposed skin was stinging - it hurt to breathe. Someone was asking him questions; he didn’t respond. They pressed a plastic mask to his face, over mouth and nose; they put something on his finger, he wasn’t sure what. 

“Jesus, man, are you mad?” an EMT was asking. “Can you hear me?”

Crowley was slowly coming back to his senses. The horrible burnt stench, he suspected, was just him. The skin on his hands didn’t look too bad, maybe a little reddened, like he had spent too much time exposing it to the sun. The book on his lap was unrecognizable with its charred cover, but it seemed miraculously intact otherwise.

He reached for the mask with a shaking hand and removed it.

“Was there anyone inside?” he asked, hoarse, and doubled over, entire body wrecked with coughs. It felt like his airways were lined with sandpaper. Breathing shouldn’t  _ hurt _ .

“We think not,” the EMT said, kindly. “But we can’t be sure. Not until they get the situation under control.”

He helped Crowley sit up and fixed the mask on his face. Somebody else was pushing a cold stethoscope beneath his jacket and shirt; some other man jabbed a needle into the crook of his elbow.

“Did you try calling them?”

_ Calling _ \--good God. God, he was so  _ stupid _ .

By some miracle, his cellphone was still working. He had to try several times before he found the right number, selected it, made a call--

It rang. And rang. Crowley was shaking uncontrollably, feeling  _ cold _ , for some ridiculous reason. Colder still, as the phone continued to ring--

The signal ended. Crowley drew in a sobbing, shuddering breath, the entire world collapsing around him. Then, on the other end of the line:

“Anthony?”

He couldn’t speak. No, he couldn’t utter a single word, all the air leaving his lungs. But it was that voice, the most wonderful sound in the entire damn universe - the single most beautiful thing Crowley had ever heard.

“Anthony? What happened?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said - muffled, because of the mask. He shoved it aside. “Where are you?”

“Still at Gabriel’s. I’m going to drop by the bookshop later, maybe you could meet me there?”

Just like that, the universe fell apart again. Crowley bit back a sob.

“Anthony?”

Aziraphale’s voice was pitched high, alarmed. Crowley listened to his increasingly desperate questions, and stared at the flaming ruins in front of him.

He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I am very sorry about the ending of the last chapter, and I regret it deeply :')
> 
> Second: this is belated, but this fic happened largely because of discussions on Ace Omens Discord and the lovely people there, that is: [Obaewankenope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope), [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal), [Herodias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodias/pseuds/Herodias), [Sarcatholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic), [Keelan_666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keelan_666), [Liebelit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liebelit/pseuds/Liebelit). And, of course, all of you here on ao3 who leave kudos and comments and make this entire experience much more rewarding and worthwhile ♥
> 
> Hope you enjoy Part 10!

Crowley woke up in an unfamiliar bed. 

A more thorough inspection revealed it to be a cot: narrow, uncomfortable, with metal railings on both sides. Around him were flimsy green curtains, a bunch of cables, a monitor hanging above his head, a set of cupboards. Further, behind the foot of his bed, he could catch a glimpse of a sink and more cupboards. Was he at a hospital? Probably. It might explain the thin, papery nightgown he was wearing. Definitely explained the cannula poking from his arm and an empty drip attached to it. But his memories of last night were hazy and unfocused - he remembered a fire. He saw the bandages wrapped around his hands and forearms. And he remembered—

The bookshop. Oh God.

Crowley pushed himself into a sitting position. He had to--he didn’t know what he was bloody going to do, but he had to do  _ something _ .

“Oh hi, you’re awake,” said a tired voice.

It was a young woman in doctor’s scrubs, round glasses, and a stethoscope slung around her neck. She spoke with a distinct American accent. Crowley stared, trying to place her face. They  _ had  _ met before, he was sure of it.

“Anathema Device,” she said. “I admitted you last night.”

“I barely remember that,” Crowley said.

“Yeah, that’s the drugs working. You were under some distress and asked for a sedative.” She yawned. “Sorry—how are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Crowley said. “Oh, you mean physically?” He stretched out his hands. There were a few blisters on his skin and it hurt to touch them but it wasn’t any worse than what Lucifer might do to him if he was in one of his moods. “Fine, I suppose.”

“Great,” she checked something in her chart and gave him a searching look from above the rim of her glasses. “We were worried you might have burned your airways, but that didn’t happen. There are some second degree burns but these should heal nicely over time. You were extremely lucky.”

“Lucky,” Crowley repeated.

“In a manner of speaking,” dr Device tapped her chart. “Uh, listen. You have a number of scars—“

“Don’t ask about those,” Crowley said.

She stared at him, uncomfortable. “Are you sure? Should I, uh, call someone?”

But Crowley was already shaking his head. “What about the fire?” he asked, because that was infinitely more important. 

“I don’t have any details,” she said. “I was on call the entire night... but I think the firemen contained it pretty quickly. And there was only one reported victim.”

Crowley froze. “What? Who?”

_ Not Aziraphale, oh God, don’t let it be him— _

The doctor gave him a strange look. “You. Obviously.”

“Oh.”

Deflated, Crowley fell back onto the cot. He  _ wasn’t  _ the victim here, but he wasn’t about to argue the point. Besides, he had spoken to Aziraphale last night - he remembered that now. He remembered the long, horrible silence, the softly spoken “Come again?”. And then, even worse: “Ah. I see. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Do I have to stay here much longer?” he asked.

The horrible, burning stench still surrounded him. Part of it was his treacherous mind, replaying the events of last night over and over again; part of it was real, clinging to his skin and hair. He very badly needed a shower.

“We meant to keep you under observation, just in case,” the doctor said. “And the police will probably be coming around to collect your statement. But other than that—“

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Crowley snapped. “And I would like to go home.”

Dr Device stifled another yawn.

“Well, we can’t keep you against your will,” she said. “Although you will need to sign a form that you are leaving of your own volition…” she took one look at Crowley and shook her head. “I’ll get the discharge papers ready.”

Once she was gone, Crowley reached under his pillow and let out a deep breath. His phone, wallet, and keys were all there; the phone was dead and the Bentley had most likely been towed, but that hardly mattered. The rest of his clothes were folded in a plastic bag by his cot. With them was the book he had taken from the fire. He turned it mindlessly between his hands, examining the blackened cover.

Opening it, Crowley realized it was Umberto Eco’s  _ The Name of the Rose _ . Which proved, once again, that the universe had a sick sense of humour.

He put the book down and forced himself to dress in the horribly smelling clothes. The hospital gown was cleaner, but also slightly transparent; he didn’t much fancy getting on public transport while wearing it. By the time the doctor was back, he was ready to leave. She did have papers for him: instructions on how to keep the wounds clean, prescription for painkillers, all that nonsense. She was still mildly suspicious but Crowley waved her off. 

He made it home in a daze: the walk, the bus ride… there was a degree of unrealness to the entire trip. It was only when he got inside his apartment building, to the top of the staircase, one hand on the doorknob when Crowley’s brain decided to start working again. Because that wasn’t his home, was it? It belonged to Lucifer. He could be inside. He could be waiting.

Deep inside, Crowley felt a surge of fury. The kind he normally only read about in books. It narrowed his focus to what was right in front of him; it made his blood boil, his mind consumed with violent thoughts. If Lucifer wanted to ambush him here,  _ let him. Let me hit him, hurt him, smash his head against the wall until his skull cracks and blood comes oozing out— _

He pushed the door open. 

The apartment was empty.

All the newfound strength abandoned him at once. Crowley slid to the floor, back against the wall, and buried his face in his hands. That  _ wasn’t him _ . He didn’t want to have to carry around that much anger and hatred. Wrath was, after all, amongst the deadliest of sins.

“Fuck,” Crowley murmured.

Everything was in place. His plants and books and laptop. He doubted anyone had even come here in his absence. Of course the  _ apartment  _ was just fine, while the bookshop—

He felt another surge of that same anger, choking him, drowning him. It wasn’t  _ right _ that his possessions were still fine—

He seized the closest flower pot and hurled it against the opposite wall. It collided with a loud crash, spraying bits of soil and pottery all around. The plant itself fell to the floor, its roots exposed, its fragile leaves broken.

“Fuck!” Crowley shouted. 

But there was no one to hear him scream. He was alone. And had made a horrible mess of things, as per usual.

He walked, guiltily, and picked up the abused little plant. It looked limp and pathetic in his cupped hands, the leaves broken in several places. But the roots were intact; it could be replanted. With time and care, it would sprout new leaves to replace the damaged ones. 

If only his other problems could be so easily solved.

With the spare pots and bags of soil he had stashed around, it didn’t take too long to resettle the plant. By the time he finished, his face was wet with tears and the bandages on his hands were dirty and disgusting. Probably not a good thing, Crowley thought belatedly. He didn’t need an infection on top of everything else.

He hissed in pain when unwrapping the bandages. The skin on his hands was indeed red in many places, covered with blisters in others; he poked one and the fluid inside shifted. Right. Don’t puncture the blisters. Don’t rub dirt onto them, but it was a bit too late for that particular lesson.

The injuries made undressing awkward. Even more so when he stepped inside the shower and tried to lather himself with soap and shampoo. But he would manage; he would manage anything to get rid of the stench. 

He found some clean clothes and a bottle of disinfectant which he sprayed liberally over the blisters. Couldn’t quite manage to wrap the bandages without assistance, though, so he left his hands bare.

And that was it. Now he had to go and find Aziraphale.

***

It was a ridiculously fancy house, in a ridiculously upscale district - although he couldn’t judge, could he? He lived in Mayfair.

He pressed the buzzer. Shortly thereafter, the front door was opened by Michael. The distaste she felt at the sight of him was perfectly clear, so Crowley offered her a wide smile.

“Hi!” he said.

“Ra—“

“It’s Crowley. You know it’s Crowley. Why must you—“ he took a deep breath and smiled, even wider and more maniacal than before. “Is Aziraphale here? Need to talk to him.”

“I doubt he will want to talk to you,” said the bishop Gabriel, materializing behind his sister.

Crowley’s heart sank. “He said that?”

“No,” Gabriel glared. “He isn’t saying much of anything. To anyone.”

“I see,” Crowley said numbly. “Can I ask him myself?”

For a long moment, he stood on their front porch, unwilling to move. The odds of them inviting him in were low, but he  _ had to  _ get inside. Aziraphale was there; all alone. He shouldn’t be alone.

Just as it was about to get really awkward, Gabriel relented.

“If you must,” he said. Michael was more reluctant; her cool gaze never left Crowley as he followed the bishop up the stairs.

“It’s that bookshop,” Gabriel said suddenly. “Aziraphale has always been way too attached to Earthly pleasures. And his possessions. Perhaps the fire was God’s way of letting him know he should reevaluate his priorities.”

After a pause, Crowley asked: “Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.” Gabriel scowled. “He was quite upset.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

The bishop face expressed pure contempt before he managed to school it into a polite smile.

“I shall ask him if he wants to see you,” he said, disappearing in one of the guest rooms. He came back shortly thereafter and, wordlessly, gestured Crowley inside.

Crowley took in a deep breath and went.

“Hi--” he began, but the words soon died in his throat.

He wasn’t prepared to see Aziraphale. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It was too much to see him like this: sitting by the window, solemn and still.

“Anthony,” the priest said, a dull smile on his face. “How nice of you to come.”

His expression was carefully neutral but the eyes betrayed him: Crowley had never seen them so dead and empty. It was a look that did not belong on Aziraphale’s kind, open face. Everything about the situation was wrong. His calmness, every emotion boxed up tight, slowly devouring him from the inside. He would have sat here, by this window, listening to Gabriel’s well-meaning bullshit, too polite to disagree, too guilt-ridden to properly mourn; and alone, so very alone.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley said, the word slipping helplessly from his lips.

If he noticed it at all, Aziraphale didn’t react to the term of endearment. “No need. It truly wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Just a couple of old books--”

“You don’t mean that,” Crowley said. Sharp, so as to provoke  _ some  _ genuine emotion out of Aziraphale. “That place was everything to you--”

“Anthony, please.” Aziraphale turned his blank face away. 

Crowley stared down at him, frustrated beyond belief. He had come here to mourn, to share in his grief - he hadn’t expected this kind of cold dismissal.

Before he could lash out, however, Crowley forced himself to calm down. This wasn’t about him. This was about Aziraphale. Much as he loved that bookshop, Aziraphale loved it  _ more _ . Crowley was selfish, yes, but not that selfish. 

“You know it’s not healthy to bottle it up,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley gestured broadly. “You. Everything about you--” his tone softened. “I’m sorry, angel. I really mean it. But you don’t have to pretend to be okay. At least, not when Gabriel isn’t around.”

“His Excellency has been very kind,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

_ Sure he has, that wanker. _

“Do you know him? Personally?” Crowley looked around. It had to be a closer relationship than a simple one between boss and subordinate, if they had invited Aziraphale to stay at their house.

“Our families used to be quite close,” Aziraphale said. “He never approved of me though.”

“Wanker.”

“Crowley!” The scandalized voice sounded more like  _ real  _ Aziraphale. “Need I remind you we are currently under his roof?”

“No,” Crowley looked around himself. The white, sparse interior held nothing of the warmth of Aziraphale’s bookshop; in some ways it was disturbingly like Lucifer’s apartment, for all the crosses and Bibles displayed around. “No need.”

Aziraphale was looking away again, as if he had forgotten Crowley’s presence. Perhaps he had. After all, he must have been devoting so much energy to keeping himself in check, lest he break down in tears. 

Slowly, Crowley moved further into the room. He held the book nervously in front of him. Perhaps it was foolish of him to have brought it here, to serve as a remainder of all the others that hadn’t survived the fire. Still, he held onto it. Should he give it to Aziraphale? Or should he leave him be, remove himself from the picture - but, no, he couldn’t do that. Aziraphale deserved to have  _ someone  _ who understood what he was going through. Even if that someone was just Crowley.

The priest wouldn’t look at him, his gaze unfocused, somewhere on the street outside, the autumn leaves falling off the branches. It wasn’t  _ right _ to look down on him, and there wasn’t a second chair nearby, so Crowley simply went down on his knees, in the hopes of catching Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes.

“I know this isn’t much,” he said quietly. “But I got this one out.”

Aziraphale’s gaze snapped to the book in his hands. It was as if someone flipped a switch: he was alert now, his eyes wide open.

“Good Lord,” he said. “What happened to your  _ hands _ ?”

Crowley looked down, uncomprehending. His hands--? Yes, the blisters were quite noticeable, but he had expected Aziraphale to care about the  _ book _ .

“You didn’t--” Aziraphale’s face, already pale, went white. “Crowley, were you  _ inside _ ? When the building caught fire?”

“No!” Crowley hurried to say. “It was already burning when I went in.”

“I’m sorry?  _ You went in _ ?” Aziraphale stared, and stared. Crowley suddenly felt very foolish indeed.

“Well, I couldn’t know, could I?” he said defensively. “Thought you were inside.”

He blinked, trying to escape the sudden intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze. It had been stupid of him, he could see it now - but he would do it again, a thousand times over. It barely even hurt, in comparison.

Their faces were almost level. He offered the book, hesitant, trying to read into Aziraphale’s expression. But it was useless; he didn’t know what to say or do to make it better. He never did.

Aziraphale took the book, and then carefully set it aside, not even looking at the burned cover. Maybe he couldn’t bear the sight of it. Lord, Crowley was  _ stupid _ . He shouldn’t have come here - shouldn’t have brought it, it was just a reminder, a  _ souvenir _ , meaningless in the magnitude of Aziraphale’s loss--

With the same careful gesture, Aziraphale took Crowley’s face between his hands.

“That was foolish of you,” he said softly. 

Then he was leaning down, closing the short distance between them, only to press his lips against Crowley’s.

Crowley could swear his heart skipped a beat; he could feel the hollowness, the silence, of the world holding its breath. He was powerless against the feeling. Weak and helpless and lost, so very lost.

“What are you doing?” he asked stupidly when Aziraphale shifted back, an inch or so. The touch of his lips, however, still lingered; a mark deeper and more permanent than the fire had left on Crowley’s body.

Aziraphale hesitated. “I--would you like me to stop?”

“No! Never--”

“Good,” Aziraphale smiled. 

They kissed, again and again. The ache was still present, almost pleasurable in its intensity. Crowley’s heart pounded in his chest, trying to beat its way out apparently. And Aziraphale was all those things he had imagined him to be: warmth and joy and  _ home _ . His kisses were uncertain, a touch hesitant, clearly inexperienced. But he was learning,  _ oh _ , with every second he became more sure, drawing Crowley further, offering himself in return.

It was too much; too many  _ feelings _ . They separated, breathing shallow and rapid, their foreheads resting against one another.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley repeated, because it was simply  _ too much _ . “It’s my fault--it’s all my fault.”

“I don’t see how,” Aziraphale said. “Unless you personally held the match that started it, I don’t see how you are to blame.”

Crowley opened his mouth to explain but Aziraphale silenced him with a kiss. And it was strange and new and wonderful, and he  _ didn’t  _ want to think about what had happened yesterday. He didn’t want to think about anything, other than how it felt to have Aziraphale in his arms. He was just about ready to forget everything other than the tiny, shared space between them, when a sudden knock on the door startled them apart.

Crowley swore.

He shuffled backwards and pushed himself to his feet, just as the bishop came into the room.

“Excellency,” Aziraphale squeaked out. His cheeks were red, damningly so. Crowley tried to stop staring but couldn’t.

Luckily, Gabriel was too self-absorbed to notice.

“I have to leave now,” he said. “Michael went to the office but should be back within the hour. You are of course welcome to stay, Aziraphale.” He stressed the name, giving Crowley a meaningful look. 

“Of course. Thank you, Excellency, you are most kind--”

Aziraphale’s nervous babble was cut short by Gabriel’s departure. He had every right to be nervous - they almost got caught making out in their room. A classic teenage experience, as far as Crowley had imagined it, given that his teenage years had been wasted on guilt and confusion rather than experimental romance.

They sat there in tense silence until the front door closed after the bishop. Only then did Aziraphale raise his eyes to look at Crowley.

“Well,” he said. More importantly, he licked his lips; Crowley’s gaze was drawn to the motion, as if nothing else existed that was worthy of his attention. He tried to catch himself, force his gaze upwards, until he remembered that they were a little past feigning indifference.

“I actually do have places to be,” Aziraphale said after a while. “The insurance company, for starters. The police will also want my statement.” He sighed, suddenly serious. “And I will have to go and see--see what’s left of the bookshop.”

Crowley was back on his knees in front of him, his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, curled tight despite the pain it caused him.

“Do you want me to come with you, angel?” he asked softly.

“That would be ever so kind of you,” Aziraphale said.

It wasn’t an affirmation, judging by his tone. Maybe he needed space. Crowley would give it to him, of course; he would give him anything at this point. It was a terrifying, sudden realization. And, impossibly, he thought he saw the same sentiment reflected in Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Stay,” Aziraphale said. “Please.”

Their shared breath became a kiss, slow and languid. But it wasn’t enough; with fumbling hands they reached beneath layers of clothing, grasping at bare skin. Crowley was aware of a bed dipping beneath their combined weight, a mouth he had fantasized about suddenly so close, sweet and gentle. 

In his imagination, he had never seen it happen like this. He had never anticipated the tenderness of Aziraphale’s touch, the soft “May I?” and “Is this all right?”. Crowley wanted to laugh at this constant stream of questions, seeking his consent and comfort; he wanted to reassure Aziraphale that, of course, he could do  _ anything _ , he didn’t need to keep asking--he might have said something of the sort, mumbled it right into Aziraphale’s ear. But the questions didn’t stop, not even when the answer was always the same.

“Angel,” he said.

This time Aziraphale heard the word just fine, if the hitch of his breath was any indication; the way his hands tightened momentarily, before relaxing, achingly gentle.

“My dear,” he murmured. “This is--ah--”

They didn’t even  _ do _ all that much, Crowley thought wildly; his mind was a little hazy between all the new sensations. Of course the blisters on his hands prevented him from simply wrapping his fingers around both of their cocks and working them to completion, but he was creative: he still had full use of his mouth. And Aziraphale made the most  _ delicious  _ sound when Crowley swallowed his length in a single, practiced motion.

Aziraphale mumbled something barely coherent; Crowley pulled back with a wet pop.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I  _ said  _ I’m not going to last long if you do that,” Aziraphale said, trying to catch his breath.

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Do you want me to stop?”

Aziraphale treated him to a heated, feverish glare. Crowley couldn’t help himself: he smirked, entirely too smug, and bent down to finish what he had started. He most certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy it as much as he did, but everything was  _ perfect _ : the way Aziraphale’s hips buckled beneath him, the flush on his skin, his fingers wound delicately in Crowley’s hair, the noises he made--the way he bit down on his fist to keep himself from crying out as he came--his eyes when he looked at Crowley--and the bitter taste of his come, hitting the back of Crowley’s throat.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. His eyes were glazed over; he reached down, mindlessly, pulling Crowley into a comfortable embrace, enveloping him with his warmth. “That was--” he was silent for a long moment, while Crowley nuzzled into his neck. “Lovely.”

Like this, it was easy enough to forget it wasn’t just the two of them: the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world. Everything outside of the cozy little space was utterly irrelevant - Crowley could stay right here, staring into Aziraphale’s eyes.

But reality caught up to them eventually.

“Damn,” Crowley said. “We shouldn’t be doing this at the bishop’s house, should we?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened rapidly.

“Oh--oh dear. You are right.” He bit his lip. “This is dreadfully inappropriate.”

Somehow, he didn’t sound too upset about this.

Time passed, even though nobody asked it to. They heard the front door open and shut; a clatter of keys being placed on the table. Before they could embarrass themselves further, Crowley extracted himself from Aziraphale’s hold.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, angel?” he asked softly.

Aziraphale’s post-coital glow had faded by this point. Once again, he was solemn and serious; the grief reflected in his eyes made Crowley’s heart ache.

“Quite so,” he said.

Michael’s footsteps sounded on the staircase. They stood up hastily and tried to sort themselves - and the bed - out. Maybe it could pass the scrutiny, if she didn’t linger.

“Oh. You are still here,” she said to Crowley, her delicate eyebrows pinched.

“I was just leaving,” Crowley said. Then he turned towards Aziraphale and tried to keep his voice casual, without much success: “I’ll see you later, Father.”

He waited for Michael down by the front door. She approached him with a cold, hostile look in her eyes.

“How is the investigation?” he asked.

“I cannot share this information with you,” she said primly. “Have you done anything to set Lucifer off, by any chance?”

His silence was damning enough.

“Good Lord,” Michael said. “Well, I hope you are proud of yourself.”

Crowley forced himself to remain calm.

“Listen,” he said hoarsely. “I have a favour to ask.” He felt he deserved an award for pushing those particular words past his lips. “Will you watch over Aziraphale? I have no idea what Lucifer is going to do next, but--”

Michael waited for his voice to trail off, expression contemptuous.

“Of course we will watch over him.” The  _ because you are incapable of it  _ hung unsaid in the air.

“Thank you,” Crowley said, catching Michael off-guard with his sincerity. Well, she might hate him, if it suited her; she might think herself better than him. Crowley couldn’t give less of a damn, so long as she kept Aziraphale  _ safe _ .

He left the house and walked down the fancy street. He should have probably picked up the Bentley; at this rate he’d have to catch a bus and then slowly make his way back to Mayfair. And then--figure out what to do next--

A car was passing him by, black and fairly nondescript. Crowley felt his heartbeat speed up as the vehicle slowed down to match his pace; even more so when the passenger window rolled down, and a voice said:

“Hello, Crawly.”

It was Hastur and Ligur. The  _ bastards _ . The actual--

“Need a ride?”

Hastur was smoking a cigarette. Crowley wanted, very badly, to rip it from his mouth and push it flame-first down his throat.

“I’m good, thanks,” he hissed.

But Ligur was already pushing the door open. Crowley looked around, considered making a run for it--but he wouldn’t get far. Besides, there wasn’t anywhere he could run  _ to _ , save for the house he had just left. And that would take them straight to Aziraphale. 

Crowley got into the car. He tried not to gag when the smell of smoke surrounded him once more; he tried not to think where they were heading.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Non-con.

“Crawly, Crawly, Crawly.”

Ligur was in the driver’s seat, Hastur sat behind Crowley. Most likely with a knife or a gun or _ something _ in case Crowley snapped and did the one thing he had ached to do ever since getting into this damn car.

“You fucked up,” Hastur was saying. “All you had to do was spread your legs for him and you couldn’t even do that right.”

Crowley clenched his fists.

“To be fair, we all expected him to be bored of you within a month,” Ligur chimed in. 

With great effort of will, Crowley managed to tune out their taunting remarks. He had a very fragile grip on his nerves right now and he needed to continue thinking straight in preparation for whatever was to come.

“Look, guys, I appreciate you coming to pick me up,” he said with forced levity. “How did you know where to find me, again?”

Hastur and Ligur exchanged amused glances in the rearview mirror.

“The boss has mysterious powers,” Ligur said.

“He can track your phone, dumbass,” Hastur added.

Hastur also blew a cloud of smoke in Crowley’s direction, and Crowley barely managed to keep himself from choking him. It really was that fucking easy, wasn’t it? The damn stupid smartphones with their dumb stupid features nobody asked for, broadcasting his location to who knows where. And he _ should _have anticipated as much, except--except he trusted Lucifer.

Had. _ Had _trusted him. Not anymore.

Just in case, he took out his phone and fiddled with the settings. Then another idea occurred to him: he pressed a few more buttons before pocketing the device.

“Bit too late for that, isn’t it?” Ligur said, eyebrows raised.

Crowley shrugged.

They delivered him straight to Lucifer’s apartment and then had the audacity to walk him all the way to the front door. Crowley cracked a few jokes but in reality, he was growing less and less comfortable with Hastur and Ligur lurking half a step behind him, where he couldn’t see their hands. 

All that paled, however, with the shock of coming face to face with Lucifer. He was in his living room, as cool and collected as ever; his face betrayed nothing but there was something in his eyes that prevented Crowley from snapping at him the second he crossed the doorstep.

“We found him wandering the streets,” Ligur said. 

Crowley flinched when he felt their hands on his shoulders. They looked to Lucifer for guidance - or permission. All in all, it was incredibly creepy.

For a long moment, Lucifer didn’t acknowledge them in any way. His eyes were on Crowley, assessing, watching him stew in his own fear. Because it was a pretty basic instinct, and there were three of them and only one of him - he couldn’t even see Hastur and Ligur at the moment, not without turning around with exaggerated nonchalance.

“If you wanted a chat, you could have called me,” he said. “No need for all that fuss.”

Lucifer’s face didn’t change. Not even when Crowley forced his dry lips to smile.

“I wouldn’t have picked up, of course. But that’s beside the point.”

“What does it take to shut you up, I wonder,” Hastur said. “Shall we find out?”

With his free hand, he withdrew the cigarette from his mouth. The glowing end came dangerously close to the exposed skin of Crowley’s neck.

“I am sure Crowley and I can come to understanding,” Lucifer said smoothly. “Leave us.”

Crowley had expected them to argue; they didn’t. One word from the man and the two sadistic bastards were gone, just shy of bowing on their way out.

They were alone. Somehow, it didn’t make Crowley feel any better.

He was too agitated to stand still so he took to circling Lucifer’s living room. All the while he felt the eyes on him, unnerving, coldly amused. And there were things he wanted to say. He would need to play it very carefully if he wanted to outsmart Lucifer - but in the end, all he could manage was a quiet, deflated:

“How could you?”

Calm as ever, Lucifer asked: “Whatever do you mean?”

“You _ know _what I mean!”

Crowley ached to grab the lapels of his pristine suit and slam him against the floor-length windows overlooking London; his hands curled into fists at his sides, stretching the blisters. The movement did not escape Lucifer’s attention.

“I did not burn down your precious bookshop, Crowley,” Lucifer said.

“Did you tell someone else to?” Crowley asked. His heart hammered in his throat; he swallowed, nervous.

That, too, did not pass unnoticed.

“Can I see your phone?”

“I asked you a question--”

“Your phone, Crowley.”

With barely a warning, Lucifer was in his space. He was taller, more muscular; all the more significant now that he could literally stare down at Crowley from a short distance. And it was such a blatant intimidation tactic, it _ shouldn’t _have worked. But it did; Crowley found himself backing away a step, but stilled rapidly when he felt Lucifer’s hands on his hips.

Lucifer sighed. “Why must you insist on being difficult, darling?”

His touch made Crowley’s skin crawl with disgust. It was heavy, proprietary; so painfully different to the way Aziraphale had touched him. With him, Crowley had felt like something precious and valuable, something worthy - Aziraphale held him as if it was a privilege; Lucifer as if it was his divine right.

And yet, for all his protestations, Crowley couldn’t push him off. He didn’t even protest when Lucifer withdrew the damned phone from his pocket and unlocked it.

He had been trying to record the entire encounter, of course, in the hopes of catching Lucifer’s confession. 

Lucifer shook his head and switched off the phone.

“Decent idea, terrible execution,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Crowley told him.

Now he did attempt to shove Lucifer off, but couldn’t help a loud, hissing noise when Lucifer curled his fingers around Crowley’s injured hands.

“Careful,” Lucifer said. “You might hurt yourself.”

“You could at least pretend to be concerned,” Crowley said icily.

“According to your discharge papers, you are perfectly fine,” Lucifer said. “Save for these.”

He ran his thumb over the blisters. Not painful; not yet. Crowley remained still, so as not to annoy him into pressing down.

“How the fuck do you have access to my discharge papers?” Crowley asked. 

He very pointedly did _ not _enter Lucifer as his emergency contact, or in any way authorized him to receive sensitive information regarding his health. But it was probably a stupid question to ask, anyway, because Lucifer seemed disappointed he even had to answer it.

“A doctor at that hospital owes me a favour,” he said. 

Of course it would be too much to expect Lucifer to care about Crowley’s privacy. Of bloody course. 

“Why did you even want to read these?” he asked.

“I was worried about you,” Lucifer said simply.

He was telling the truth - a truth. Crowley had to remember that about him.

“How touching,” Crowley said. Once again he attempted to slither free without making the movement too obvious an escape attempt; once again, Lucifer tightened his grip ever so slightly, anger flaring in his eyes.

“You know, Crowley,” he said, tone deceptively light. “I feel like you don’t appreciate how lucky you are.” Crowley’s derisive snort was cut short by Lucifer’s sharp smile. “Your priest could have been inside.”

Crowley froze, unable to process the implication behind the statement.

“Lucky,” he repeated, hollow. That was the second time today someone told him that; Crowley, meanwhile, felt nothing of the sort. “You expect me to be grateful, then?”

“A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt, no” Lucifer said. “Too often we lose something before we learn to appreciate it. I suggest you don’t make that mistake.”

“You don’t mean it,” Crowley said.

“I don’t use my words lightly.”

There was nothing in Lucifer’s eyes - _ nothing _ . No trace of guilt or remorse as he made thinly-veiled threats on an innocent man’s life. A part of Crowley’s brain tried to process that observation, but his mind was soon overtaken by a vision of Aziraphale caught in the fire. The picture was so clear it obscured even the very real memories of holding Aziraphale, earlier that day. He had been in Crowley’s arms, warm and real and _ alive _ ; he hadn’t burned, so why did Crowley couldn’t _ stop seeing it? _

Lucifer was still waiting. For what - Crowley couldn’t begin to imagine. He had never understood that man and now, for the first time, he began to realize that it was probably a good thing.

“He’s done nothing to you,” Crowley said. “Hurting him will gain you nothing—you took a huge risk as it is—“

The words were wooden, meaningless. Because it shouldn’t be about that, should it? Violence shouldn’t be a means to an end, applied when necessary after careful consideration. 

“He tried to take something of mine,” Lucifer said. “I have done worse to people for less.”

His even tone didn’t match the meaning. Even more disconcerting was the gentle touch of his fingers on Crowley’s cheek as they traced the line of his cheekbone, the snake tattoo Lucifer himself had suggested he get. And he had been there, watching, as the tattoo artist jabbed the needle in Crowley’s face. There had been a strange hunger in his expression back then: it was back now, in the curl of his smile and the fire behind his eyes.

_ Mine. _No.

“Let me go,” Crowley said.

“is this really what you want?,” Lucifer asked.

Crowley cursed his selfishness, his cowardice. Instead, he said: “Don’t hurt him.”

Lucifer smiled and leaned forward, his lips inches from Crowley’s ear.

“You can ask nicer than this, darling.”

Crowley let out a shuddering breath that wasn’t quite laughter. There was nothing funny about the situation, _ nothing _; his back was against the wall, Lucifer holding him captive between the concrete and his chest. And yet, laugh he did, teetering on the verge of hysteria. Caught halfway between fear and anger. He wanted to placate Lucifer; he wanted to claw off his face; he wanted his forgiveness, his apologies, he wanted to believe in him again, and he wanted to forget he had ever existed--

In a small, meek voice, Crowley said: “Don’t hurt him. Please_ . _”

“Better,” Lucifer said, smiling, as if Crowley had just performed a clever trick. 

Crowley wondered how much of the raw hatred had shown on his face. His entire body was trembling with it--and he had to _ stop _ , get himself under control, do whatever it was Lucifer wanted and then _ get the hell away from him _.

But, even now Crowley could feel his strength waning. He didn’t resist when Lucifer cupped his face between his hands, the touch of his fingers a shock on Crowley’s skin. His vision blurred, the sting of tears in his eyes humiliating but inevitable; he shut them quickly but it was already too late. 

“You know that none of this would have happened if you remained loyal to me, my darling,” Lucifer said. “It could have been so much easier for all of us… and yet here we are.”

“You are not worth loyalty,” Crowley hissed, because he was an idiot. “Mine, or anyone else’s.”

Saying these words to his face would not be without consequences, Crowley knew. He braced himself for the pain, in whatever form Lucifer might choose to deliver it. 

“Am I not?” Lucifer asked softly. “I have given you everything you asked for, and then more. All the things you were too afraid to want, because your religion taught you to hate yourself for _ wanting _.” His nails were digging into Crowley’s cheeks; Crowley hissed and opened his eyes, an instinctive reaction to painful stimuli. Now that they were open, he couldn’t avoid Lucifer’s burning gaze. “And I asked for very little in return.”

“What do you want from me?” A question he should have, no doubt, considered ages ago; but questions had led him to Lucifer in the first place. Questions were dangerous.

Lucifer pondered this for a moment, his smile sharp.

“As I’ve said,” he said. “Gratitude. Loyalty. I know these are difficult words for you to grasp, but you could start with _ not _fucking other people without my permission.”

_ Permission _. Crowley bristled at the word, and forgot to deny the accusation while it was still fresh. He could tell, by the way Lucifer’s expression hardened, that he had read the truth in Crowley’s face.

“We are _ done _,” Crowley said. “I told you before--”

“We are not.”

Lucifer said this with a quiet, dangerous finality. He held Crowley’s gaze, watching as the words sank in; meanwhile, his hands slipped beneath Crowley’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.

“You can _ not _ be serious!” Crowley shoved him, only to be shoved _ back _, twice as hard, his head slamming the wall with a dull thud. It disoriented him for long enough; his jacket fell to the floor and Lucifer was already pulling off his v-neck and undershirt. Crowley’s attempts to stop him only resulted in the fabric ripping.

He was aware of hot, searing-hot kisses on his exposed neck, and those damn hands, digging bruises into his skin. Lucifer was strong enough to grab both his wrists and hold them still, his hips pressed flush against Crowley’s.

“Can I just ask,” Crowley hissed. “What is it about this entire situation that turns you on?”

Lucifer _ laughed _, his voice rich with all those emotions Crowley hardly thought him capable of: amusement, delight.

“I like it rough,” he said. “I thought you would realize by now.”

Crowley knew this. He had known this since he was eighteen, since the first time Lucifer had gotten bored of his inexperienced fumbling; since the time he had whispered, in his silky voice, _ Let’s try something else tonight, my darling. _ He had known every time Lucifer ignored his hesitation, discomfort, protests-- _ I know it hurts _ , and _ Trust me _ , and _ You will like it, I promise _\--and he was sick of it, he was sick of being touched in that way, he was sick of his words not mattering.

“Let me go,” he said. And then, because that seemed to work the previous time: “_ Please _.”

It almost worked. Almost; Lucifer loosened his hold, shifted back to meet Crowley’s gaze. And it was such a lovely sensation, the chilly air on Crowley’s bare chest instead of the burning heat of the man’s body; he could breathe in, trying to rein in the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I am willing to give you a chance, Crowley,” Lucifer said. “Apologize. Repent. And I will be gentle with you.”

He knew what he had to say; he knew what he had to do. This wasn’t just about him, this was about _ Aziraphale _. Aziraphale’s safety was on the line, he had already lost so much, he didn’t deserve this--

But, even knowing all that, Crowley couldn’t say it. Crowley was a coward. Snake, viper, _ traitor _.

He deserved what was coming to him.

***

His skin felt alien, ill-fitting, as if it were about to crawl away from him. With every touch, Lucifer only reinforced that sense of wrongness; Crowley’s body didn’t seem Crowley’s anymore. His muscles weren’t obeying him, for one. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t. Even the pain didn’t register at first, because he couldn’t shake the thought that it was happening to somebody else, that he was just a guest here, a passive observer--afterwards, his hands were shaking. He pressed them to his face, blisters and all, and tried to make sense of what had happened.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” Lucifer said in a low, gentle murmur. “But you have given me no choice.”

His voice was so calm, so wonderfully sensible - and surely he could make the pain go away. He _ would _ . In the past, he _ had _ . Crowley had a hard time remembering why he had doubted him in the first place. It was hard, because it _ hurt _, and he didn’t want it to hurt, but his body didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore and wouldn’t obey simple commands. 

“I need a shower,” he said, shakily.

What he needed was to be alone. Locked in between the four walls of a shower cabin, a bathroom, his apartment, anything. He needed the spray of water on his face, too loud, drowning everything else. He needed to feel it on his skin, _ his _ skin, _ his _ body, _ his _\--

“Of course,” Lucifer said. He pressed his lips to Crowley’s neck, his collarbone. He pressed his fingers to Crowley’s hips, over the bruises he had left there earlier. Water wouldn’t wash those off, not that easily. “As you wish.”

Crowley took his shower and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. He wanted to go back to his apartment - the apartment, in any case. The bathroom was positioned in such a way that he could reasonably sneak out unnoticed. But the keys, wallet, phone, even his damn clothes were back there, on the couch. In the living room. With Lucifer. He hadn’t thought to bring them with him. And now he had no choice; he had to go back.

He didn’t know what to do or say so he hovered near the entrance. Lucifer might have showered too in the meantime; he looked--calm. Relaxed. Domestic. He exchanged the pristine suit for a tank top and slacks, and was sitting on the couch with a drink in one hand and a tablet in the other.

“You’ve been there a long time,” he said, arching a perfect eyebrow. “Were you trying to drown yourself?”

Crowley shook his head, mutely.

A drink. A drink sounded nice. Lucifer was having a gin and tonic by the looks of it, in a tall clear glass. With a slice of lime. 

When he got to the kitchen there was, indeed, a cutting board, a sharp little knife, two halves of a lime. A bottle of gin. Glass, in the cupboard. Tonic, in the fridge. Ice.

Crowley stared down at his hand. Realized he was gripping the knife - small, pitiful thing, used for cutting fruit. Sharp. Stainless steel, gleaming even in the dim light of the kitchen--

“Dramatic, aren’t you?” 

Lucifer’s voice did something to him. Crowley froze, gripping the knife even tighter.

“You won’t do it,” Lucifer said calmly. “I know you, Crowley. I could maybe see you killing a man in self-defense, but cold-blooded murder?” 

As if to prove his point, he approached Crowley. Close. Easily within stabbing distance.

Crowley dropped the knife.

“See?” Lucifer said. He drowned his glass and set it down, empty, on the counter. “Get me another one of these, will you?”

Unsure what else to do, his movements still stiff and awkward, Crowley prepared two drinks and brought them into the living room. Lucifer was sitting on the couch, clearly expecting Crowley to join him, but--Crowley couldn’t. Lucifer had, had raped him on that very same couch, not half an hour ago, and now he was sitting here, calm, as if nothing had happened.

Maybe nothing had. Maybe Crowley wasn’t remembering things correctly, it couldn’t be that Lucifer would be so calm, so relaxed after doing something so objectively wrong, could it? It didn’t make any sense.

“Sit down,” Lucifer said, having grown tired of Crowley’s awkward hovering. 

Crowley sat down. He sipped his drink.

It didn’t make sense that they were just sitting here, drinking. But he remembered what happened. But it didn’t make sense.

“How are you feeling?” Lucifer asked, his voice kind and gentle. 

His fingers were in Crowley’s hair, stroking. Crowley shuddered violently but didn’t pull away, it was vitally important that he didn’t pull away.

“You have always been like this,” Lucifer said, with something like fond exasperation. “Accepting my help when it’s convenient for you, and then painting yourself as the victim when it isn’t. That way you didn’t have to take any responsibility for your actions.”

Again, Crowley shuddered. This wasn’t what had happened--or was it?

“I was eighteen,” he said. “I had no one else--”

For a very long time, Lucifer was silent. He continued toying with Crowley’s hair and studying him intently. When he eventually spoke, his voice was measured and even, as if they were discussing some difficult academic problem.

“It is very easy to take advantage of someone when they’re at their most vulnerable,” he said. “When they feel alone with their grief. When no one understands them.”

Of all the things he might say, Crowley hadn’t expected it to be--that. He stared, wide-eyed, seeking a hint of remorse in Lucifer’s expression.

What he found instead was cool amusement.

“You would know, Crowley. You did this to Aziraphale.” 

Silence was ringing in Crowley’s ears. From a great distance, he heard his own voice say: “What?”

Lucifer was smiling, patient, understanding. 

“You wanted him, but he wouldn’t have you,” he was saying in that calm, soothing voice. “Today though - today he wasn’t himself. So consumed by sorrow and regret, he managed to forget all his precious rules. And he needed a friend, someone who understands and sympathizes with his loss. Unlike those other priests, who consider his interests frivolous and silly.”

He leaned over, voice lowering to a murmur, his hand caressing Crowley’s cheek.

“And then you come in. With your understanding, and your sympathy. You offer him a shoulder to cry on, and he finally, _ finally _gives in.”

Crowley was shivering. He felt like he might fall apart any second now, and there was nothing to hold onto except Lucifer’s arms.

“This isn’t what happened,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to lie to me, darling,” Lucifer said. “I most certainly will not judge you for wanting something. Someone.” He pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple. “You took what you wanted, Crowley. And it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Crowley said, shivering. “No.”

Lucifer took his face between his hands, and kissed him. Crowley didn’t respond, didn’t _ want _ to respond. He had had enough today, fucking _ enough _ , and he wanted his body to stop hurting, and he wanted his mind to hold together instead of flying apart at the seams as it did right now. He wanted to be alone; he _ needed _to be alone.

Faced with an utter lack of response, Lucifer pulled back. His eyes were narrowing with disappointment, irritation - all the things Crowley had to avoid, at all cost. He couldn’t remember why at the moment, but he--he should. He needed to. So long as he did what Lucifer wanted, all would be well between them. 

“You’re mine, Crowley. Stop fighting it.”

Crowley didn’t have the strength to argue. He was tired, and hurt, and ashamed; he didn’t know what he was meant to be thinking or feeling anymore. And it was easier, _ easy _to give in.

It was just a kiss. His mouth tasted like ash and smoke, but it was just a kiss. He gave in, with that kiss, because he was a coward, and Aziraphale was hurt, and could be hurt again. Because Crowley had brought this upon him, and then used him. Because Aziraphale wasn’t here, _ and that was a good thing _ , but Lucifer was, and Lucifer _ could _be kind, and good, and understanding. Not like Aziraphale was; nowhere near that. But he could be, and it was easier to think about that than it was to think about Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who trusted Crowley, and whose trust Crowley had betrayed. Whom Crowley wanted with every fibre of his being and then, foolishly, selfishly, sullied with the touch of his hands. 

Aziraphale, who deserved so much better than Crowley was able to offer.

"Yours," he whispered.

A small price to pay, for Aziraphale to be free of them both.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm.
> 
> I know it's been a while (about a month) but I just couldn't concentrate on writing for some reason... anyway. Here is chapter 12, with probably two more to go. And if you still care about this fic despite the lengthy break, then thank you so much! I'm very grateful ♥
> 
> One important thing to note: I've been discussing this fic with the wonderful people on the Ace Omens Discord server, who encouraged the idea of Crowley being Michael and Gabriel's estranged sibling. I was even going to go back and tweak the previous chapters to account for it, but then I realized that I'd rather finish this story before starting to re-write it. So maybe there will be an alternative version later :D
> 
> For now, hope you enjoy this!

It was perhaps inevitable that they would run into each other. Partially, Crowley thought, it was that whoever was in charge of this universe hated him, on a deep and personal level. Or at the very least thought it was amusing to watch him squirm. But there was also a much more mundane reason, in that Crowley had to visit the police and give his statement regarding the fire.

Michael and Sandalphon were there, listening as Crowley carefully repeated everything Lucifer had told him to say. No, he didn’t know anything. Yes, it was probably an accident. He was just visiting a friend who was coming back to town and panicked at the sight of the fire. 

_ Can you think of anyone with a grudge against Father Aziraphale,  _ they had asked him.

_ No. I really cannot. _

Really, it was easier to lie when the lie was basically the truth, with perhaps only a few bits sanded off. 

Unfortunately, on his way out of the building, he nearly crashed into Aziraphale.

It began to rain sometime within the last hour so Crowley was looking down at his feet, the collar of his coat pulled up. Of course he had forgotten an umbrella. Of course. And so, he didn’t even realize he was about to collide with someone until the very last minute: then he recognized the pale curly hair, the solemn expression, the blue of his eyes. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up; despite the bookshop, despite everything, he still managed to smile at Crowley with such warmth and tenderness, it made Crowley’s heart ache. “Anthony!”

Against his better judgement, Crowley found himself smiling back. “Hi, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face softened. He extended his own umbrella, almost unthinkingly, to shield Crowley from the rain.

“I was hoping to meet you here,” he said. “I tried calling, but--” 

And just like that, Crowley was crashing back on Earth.

“I, uh.” He cast a frantic look around, at the pedestrians and tourists passing them by. “Angel, listen--”  _ Angel _ . No. He shouldn’t have said that. “Father.”

He desperately searched for something, anything to say, that wasn’t the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to mention.

“Uh--did you talk to the insurance people?” he asked.

Aziraphale sighed. “Indeed I have. They are investigating the matter - checking if I am not the one at fault.”

Crowley shuddered with indignation. “That’s bollocks, angel. You’d never--”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “But it is also the matter of fire safety protocols, that sort of thing.”

“Which you were extremely pedantic about,” Crowley said sharply. “They have no grounds on which to refuse you the damn insurance money!” His tone softened; he looked down at his feet, awkwardly. “Which, I know wouldn’t be much under the circumstances.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, very quiet. “I suppose not.” He looked back at Crowley, moving a step closer. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m--” Crowley looked down at his hands. Still bandaged, although the bandages were mostly to protect the pink, tender new skin from injuries. His hands weren’t the problem here; his hands would heal in time. “Fine. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t know who was watching. Maybe Hastur or Ligur were lurking somewhere nearby; Hell, Ligur worked in this very building. It would be wiser to leave, right about now. But before they parted, there were things Crowley had to say.

“Listen,” Crowley began. Then he swallowed, and forced himself to continue: “I’m sorry about the other day. It was a mistake.”

It took a moment for the words to set in. And, as they did, the light in Aziraphale’s eyes dimmed considerably. 

“Oh,” he said, very quietly. He was smiling, but it was a hollow shell of a smile. “I see.”

There wasn’t much else to say, yet he should say something. He should explain--something. Everything. He should be able to tell Aziraphale how much he meant to Crowley. Yet here they were, frozen in awkward silence, barely more than strangers for how poorly they could fit into one another’s lives.

A sleek black Aston Martin pulled over - right in front of the building, on a disabled parking spot. Lucifer might not care about cars in the same way he didn’t care about anything else, but he recognized them as a status symbol, and therefore owned the most expensive one. But, then again, Crowley had bought the Bentley on a whim, so maybe he had no right to judge.

Even as the door was opening, Crowley took half a step forward, to position himself between Lucifer and Aziraphale. His throat was dry; his heart-rate picked up. Yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Lucifer’s cool smile; stood, frozen, when Lucifer looped a proprietary arm around his waist.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“Yes,” Crowley said, stiffly. His reluctance would not go unnoticed; Lucifer was looking at him, kept looking at him, eyes slightly narrowed, an edge to his smile. Until Crowley relaxed into his touch and pressed his lips to Lucifer’s cheek, only the faintest tremor in his voice: “Thought you were at work.”

“Well, I had to pick you up,” Lucifer said. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost on your way home, darling.”

Crowley pulled back. Then, belatedly, he remembered that Aziraphale was still there.

Aziraphale, who was staring at Lucifer with a look in his eyes Crowley had never seen before. Could barely imagine it, really - it didn’t fit the soft lines of Aziraphale’s face, his gentle eyes, his worried, happy smile. Put simply, this wasn’t a face suited for rage.

What if Aziraphale already figured out what had really happened? What if he wanted to confront Lucifer about it, right then and there? And what if--what if Lucifer retaliated against him, what if this time there would be nothing holding him back, and he would do something much, _much_ worse than the horrid cruelty he had already committed?

No. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

“Let’s go, then,” Crowley said.

One glance from Lucifer told him that he knew exactly what Crowley was doing and was rather amused by the entire situation.

“I’d hate to be rude to your friend,” he said.

Aziraphale looked as if he wanted to say something. Crowley silently begged him not to.

“Well, you can’t really park here,” Crowley said.

Lucifer shrugged. “No, I suppose not. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the Met,” he smiled at the private joke, even though it wasn’t at all funny as far as Crowley was concerned. But he wasn’t done, oh no: next he turned to Aziraphale and said: “My deepest sympathies for what happened, Father. Do let me know if I can assist you with the insurance agents.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He could almost taste the threat of violence in the damp air. And Aziraphale was a lot stronger than he looked; Crowley had seen him heft crates full of heavy books as if they weighted next to nothing. If he chose to fight Lucifer--and maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, said a little voice in Crowley’s head. Lucifer was used to causing pain. Maybe, just this once, he deserved to be on the receiving end of it.

But it wasn’t in Aziraphale’s nature. Besides, the consequences might be dire.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

Lucifer’s smile was predatory. 

“Good day to you, Father,” he said.

He pushed at the small of Crowley’s back, directing him towards the car. Crowley got into the passenger seat, silent, watching as Aziraphale’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked.

Lucifer didn’t respond. Crowley risked a glance at him, and shuddered: he had, perhaps, misjudged just how angry the man was. It would be wiser not to annoy him any further.

“Where are we going?” he asked instead, in a more neutral tone of voice.

“I’m taking you home,” Lucifer said icily. “Just like I said.”

Crowley swallowed. “I, uh, meant to pick up the Bentley--”

“You can do that later.”

Crowley didn’t argue.

The apartment in Mayfair should have felt like home. It had, for the past several years. But having Lucifer here, for the first time in ages, reminded him sharply that, no. He did not own this space. He did not own anything, it seemed. Not his time, not his own fucking body, if the way Lucifer touched him was any indication.

Lucifer was looking around, at the artwork, the books on astrophysics, the take-out boxes that littered the kitchen. Crowley observed him warily, trying to read his body language for some clue as to what might happen next. Surely he had a good reason to come here; surely he did not expect Crowley to disobey him now, if he had simply summoned him to his own place. And it couldn’t be just to admire Crowley’s plants.

He did give them a lot of attention, however. More than anything else in the apartment. He even paused to run his fingers over one lush, verdant leaf.

“These are perfect,” he said. “How did you manage that?”

Crowley wasn’t sure what was the right response to this question. He settled for: “The optimal balance of sunlight, hydration, and nutrient supplementation.”

Lucifer smiled. It wasn’t a particularly kind smile.

“Is that so?” he asked. “Or is it that you simply get rid of those who underperform?”

Crowley didn’t like the tone. He didn’t like the knowing look in Lucifer’s eyes. He most certainly didn’t appreciate the sudden touch of Lucifer’s fingers on his cheek, examining him the same way he had examined the plants earlier.

“Maybe sometimes,” Crowley mumbled.

“So you agree,” Lucifer said, staring down at him until Crowley dropped his gaze somewhere to the floor. “This is usually the most efficient strategy.”

Crowley couldn’t help the tremor running through him. He didn’t know what was expected of him at this point; he didn’t know what to do or say. 

Then Lucifer moved closer, his lips a short distance from the shell of Crowley’s ear. “Kneel down, darling.”

Ah. So that’s what it was about. Well, he should have probably seen it coming.

The one glimmer of hope was that Lucifer was here with him, and not out there, where Aziraphale was. With any luck, Crowley could keep it that way.

***

That Sunday, Crowley went to church.

It wasn’t just any old church, but the Westminster Abbey itself. He had expected the St Paul’s Cathedral, but apparently Reverend Gabriel was going to be here today for the Holy Communion. Hopefully Michael would be here also.

He thought he could see her, in one of the front pews. But then the service was starting and Crowley’s attention was elsewhere. 

The bishop wasn’t a bad preacher; Crowley had half-heartedly hoped he might be, but the man was handsome and charismatic and that counted for something. He had nothing of Aziraphale’s warmth, however. Crowley felt less like he was participating in something holy and more like he was attending a lecture. 

Afterwards, he made sure to hover near the exit so that he wouldn’t miss Michael. She noticed him, her expression souring immediately.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” she said coldly once they were outside. 

“Yeah, hi,” Crowley said. “Can we talk?”

Michael considered it for an uncomfortably long time, letting him know just how much she wanted to disagree. 

“We can,” she said. “Shall we?”

They headed towards the Westminster Bridge. Despite the terrible weather, the place was crawling with tourists, and it was easy enough to get lost in the crowd.

The wind howled in their ears. Michael subtly adjusted her fashionable scarf and Crowley put up the collar of his coat, heedless of the crimes against fashion. He hated being cold. It had never suited him.

“How’s Aziraphale?” he asked quietly.

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business,” Michael said with a tight-lipped smile. 

Crowley exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Fine, have it your way,” he said. 

They paused halfway down the bridge, staring ahead at the steel-grey waters of the Thames. Between the wind, the crowds, and the traffic, chances of them being overheard were slim. Slim, but not non-existent; Crowley reminded himself of this as he switched off his phone. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Just--promise me--”

But Michael was already cutting him off: “Promise  _ you _ ? Why would I do that?”

Crowley swallowed. 

“I have information,” he said. 

Michael regarded him, one eyebrow arched. When she finally spoke, the tone of her voice chilled Crowley to his bones.

“You have already proven you are willing to lie to protect Lucifer,” she said. “Surely you do not expect me to trust you. Or the credibility of your sources.”

A family was passing them by, chatting excitedly in some language Crowley didn’t recognize. Something Slavic, by the sound of it. Crowley pretended to take a picture of the London Eye as it spun gently on the other bank, waiting for the family to move along.

“You’re not even going to give me a chance, huh?” he asked quietly.

“You consider yourself worthy of one?” Michael asked back, cold, chilling, utterly uncaring. She wasn’t supposed to be any of those things; she was a devout Christian, a successful lawyer, a model fucking citizen. But here, with Crowley, she apparently felt no need to act like it.

Still, Crowley tried. Stupidly, he tried.

“That’s not very fair,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course you did,” Michael said. “You had plenty of options.” She tipped her head to the side and smiled at him. “We all have our problems, Crowley. Not all of us choose to prostitute ourselves to dangerous criminals to solve them.”

Crowley could feel his cheeks flaming. Embarrassment or anger, it was hardly relevant.

“Lucifer knows about you and Ligur,” he blurted out. Then he forced himself to take in a few deep breaths, hoping the slow exhales would bleed some of the tension out of his chest. “Just so you bloody know.”

The silence stretched a bit too long. Her tone was unaffected, but her face betrayed some of the emotions she was trying hard not to show: surprise, anger, resentment. It was shockingly gratifying.

“Yes, I assumed that was a possibility,” she lied. “How did you find out?”

Crowley shrugged in response. The satisfaction was short-lived.

“I don’t know the details, if that’s what you’re asking,” he murmured. “I don’t know if Ligur knows that Lucifer knows. If that’s something they worked out between the two of them, or if Lucifer is toying with him. Hard to say.” Although if he had to guess, it was the latter. Just seemed like a Lucifer thing. “Don’t trust the intel he gives you, anyway.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Michael said icily. 

They had to pause again as a group of loud, obnoxious tourists sailed past them. Crowley didn’t even try to guess their nationality. He took the chance to take a more careful look around, scanning their surroundings for--he did not know what.

“We should move,” Michael said. 

They joined the colourful crowd, heading for the South Bank. Crowley remembered taking the exact same stroll with Aziraphale, not that long ago. It had been such a nice day overall, but now the memory of it left him with a dull ache in his chest. He tried to banish the thought of Aziraphale and focused on the here-and-now: he had surprised Michael. She would want her revenge eventually. 

But she could keep Aziraphale safe. For that reason alone, Crowley would endure her company.

“So?” he asked, swallowing. “Do we have a deal?”

“I will not make deals with you,” she said. “Because you have nothing to offer.”

Crowley took in a deep breath, scanning their surroundings yet again, giving himself time before he snapped and lashed out at her.

“That’s a bit unfair. Could find out something of value. You never know.”

Michael smiled politely. “Yes. And when you do, you will contact me immediately.”

“Why would I do that?” Crowley snapped. “You’ve just said you won’t deal with me!”

She blinked and tipped her head to the side. 

“Indeed I have,” she said. “Because you have no leverage here, Crowley. Lucifer’s imprisonment is your best chance at surviving, and I’m the only one who can cause it to happen. There is no need for me to promise you anything, since you already have a strong incentive to do what I tell you to do.” She waited for the words to sink in, and watched him fume as they did.

Because it was true. He didn’t have a choice; he simply didn’t. 

Oh, but he hated the knowing smile, the smug expression, the condescending attempt at sympathy she displayed. He hated her, so very much--

“Did you know Lucifer has a son?” Michael asked sweetly.

Crowley nearly walked into the man in front of him. 

“Oh hell,” he said, blinking. “Poor kid…”

“Quite so. Although I heard he is happily adopted,” Michael said. 

Probably for the best. Probably. Still, that was--a lot to live with. A grim legacy, if the unfortunate kid ever found out about it.

“And the biological mother?” he asked. 

Michael paused before answering.

“No one seems to know what happened to her,” she said. “No one even knows her name.” And then she looked straight at Crowley, with her steely eyes and icy smile: “Bear that in mind, if you still believe Lucifer will leave you be once he’s bored of you.”

He stood in silence, way past the limit of plausible deniability, grateful that the sunglasses shielded him from Michael’s gaze. He stood, and thought about plants with spots on their leaves, wilting, shedding leaves on the carpet. And what happened to them afterwards.

“No,” Crowley said quietly. “I don’t believe he will.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a while :') Mostly because I wanted to finish the next chapter before I publish this one. So the good news is, another update is coming very soon - either one or two more chapters to go!
> 
> Again, I'd like to thank [Sarcatholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic) and [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal) for their help and support, as well as everyone who read this and left comments or kudos. You are all awesome! ♥ 
> 
> **Warnings:** Graphic depictions of violence.

Crowley was trying to write a letter. It wasn’t coming out right.

In all fairness, he didn’t even know what it was he wanted to say. And what does one do in a situation like this, anyway? Stick to impersonal banalities:  _ I love you, I’m sorry?  _ Acknowledge the truth of the situation:  _ I know we’ve only known each other for a few months but you’re my best friend? _ Is it creepy or clingy to say it to someone after such a short time?  _ I’m glad you were on my side? You made me—you meant so much— _

Ugh.

He tried another approach:  _ Hey Aziraphale! My own stupidity has finally caught up with me. My boyfriend turned out to be kind of evil. If you’re reading this letter, I’m probably already dead. _

Also:  _ I sincerely hope they had to bring in my family to identify the body and did not bother you with it. I don’t know what Lucifer might do to me but I can’t imagine it to be a pretty sight. _

No, that was a bit too spiteful and vindictive. Hmm.

_ There was nothing you could have done to prevent this, angel.  _

_ Can you please take care of the plants?  _

_ I’m so sorry about the bookshop. It was my fault, I should have seen it coming. _

No, this was getting ridiculous. Crowley drained a glass of wine and tried to focus on the computer screen: a task made more difficult by all the other glasses of wine he had drank before this one.

Maybe, Crowley thought. Maybe it wasn’t going to be that bad. This letter idea was probably stupid, anyway. Or he would fuck it up somehow, and instead of cheering Aziraphale up, it’d only make things worse.

This was just—insurance, of sorts. He didn’t want Aziraphale to hate him. He didn’t want to get murdered either, obviously. But in the grand scheme of things, he had more control over the former than the latter.

He’d probably have to settle on something cheesy and banal. Simple. Simple was often best.

He drank the rest of the bottle and finished his stupid letter.

***

Even days later, he wasn’t sure about it. The words fitted together poorly but they were the best he could come up with at such a short notice. He even went to the trouble of writing them by hand. It just seemed like the sort of thing that Aziraphale would appreciate, charmingly old-fashioned as he was.

Then came the matter of delivering it. Much as he ached to see Aziraphale again, it probably wouldn’t be a wise move with how closely Lucifer had been watching him. Crowley could almost hear the ice crack beneath his feet whenever he was alone with the man. It was clear that the act of arson did not satisfy him; neither did Crowley’s obedience. 

Perhaps nothing would.

He ended up attending Holy Communion at St Paul’s Cathedral, and was lucky enough to catch bishop Gabriel - who did not seem happy to see him, and was much worse at concealing his contempt than Michael had been.

“Are you certain you are at the right place?” Gabriel asked. “Given your--”

The pause dragged on.

“My what?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gabriel shook his head and clasped his hands together.

“Choices in life. Nature. Occupation. The list is quite long.”

For a moment, Crowley could only stare at him. There were at least several quotes that sprang to mind - Luke chapter 7, the bit with Mary Magdalene - but he didn’t really have the right to be debating the Bible with a bishop in a church, did he? Even so.

“You are a couple of decades out of date with those views, Excellency,” Crowley said. 

“Our faith did not survive hundreds of years by bowing to flimsy fashions and latest trends,” Gabriel said. 

“That’s interesting, coming from a protestant.”

Gabriel cast him a withering look. Crowley then remembered himself.

“Sorry,” he said, and then carefully took out the latter from his jacket. “I actually have a favour to ask. Could you, uh--deliver this letter to Aziraphale? I would send it to him, but. Well.”

He didn’t know Aziraphale’s current address. He didn’t even know if Aziraphale had an address, or if he was forced to depend on Gabriel and Michael’s hospitality, although he sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. That house had been so cold, so soulless - it didn’t fit Aziraphale at all.

The bishop made no move to reach for the letter, as if coming into contact with anything Crowley touched was dangerous.

“It’s not illegal, obscene, or sacrilegious,” Crowley said impatiently. 

“I see,” Gabriel said, obviously doubtful. “And why are you giving it to me?”

A decade of regular confessions had ingrained in him a habit of being truthful with priests, even when he couldn’t be truthful with his family or himself.That habit now fought with his inherent dislike of the bishop, and lost.

“You yourself wanted me to stay away from him,” Crowley said. He waved the latter. “There’s just a couple of things I had to clarify. In case--” he hesitated. “In case something happens to me, I guess.”

Gabriel frowned. For the first time, Crowley felt like he had his full, undivided attention. He didn’t much care for the feeling.

“In case what happens?”

“Oh. You know. Stuff,” Crowley said, vaguely. “So?”

With some reluctance, Gabriel took the letter, staring down at it as if it might explode.

“Thanks,” Crowley said. “Just, uh. Don’t give it to him right away.” Gabriel’s frown deepened. “You will know when, Excellency. Believe me--you’ll know.”

With that, he fled the church. 

***

“What’s with the sudden bursts of piety?” Lucifer asked later that day. Proving, once and for all, that privacy was a privilege he no longer felt like granting.

Crowley stayed as he was, leaning one shoulder against the balcony door. It was beginning to rain and he enjoyed the view of London much, much more than Lucifer at the moment.

“Crowley. Look at me.”

His tone brokered no argument. Much as he wanted to disobey, Crowley found himself unable to. It was probably survival instinct overriding his contrary nature.

“Been thinking about the fate of my immortal soul,” Crowley said with as much sarcasm as he thought he might get away with. 

“How apt,” Lucifer said. “And must you do it in a church?”

“They are sort of designed for that very purpose,” Crowley said. 

“Are they?” Lucifer said. “Or are they designed for clandestine meetings?”

Crowley felt his throat seize up. He tried to breathe through it and concentrate on getting some air into his lungs.

“What?” he asked, voice strained.

Lucifer’s face shifted. It took a moment for Crowley to catalogue this particular expression - the arch of his eyebrows, the set line of his mouth. Disappointment, maybe. Anger, definitely. He wouldn’t know how much trouble he was in until it exploded in his face, and the anticipation was tying his stomach in knots. 

He didn’t move from his spot by the balcony door when Lucifer came closer. If anything, he found his back pressed tight against the wall even before those familiar hands carded through his hair and then lifted his face up, towards the muted light. 

“Must you make it so hard to trust you again?” Lucifer asked. His tone was deceptively light, but his eyes were narrowed, dangerous. 

Crowley bit back the apologies that were flooding his tongue. Because, really, he didn’t have anything to apologize for--or did he? It wasn’t easy to concentrate with Lucifer holding him as he was, his hands cradling Crowley’s face, with only the slightest hint of nails digging into his scalp.

“You didn’t mind me going, back when we first met,” Crowley said.

He tried to remember what it was like to see Lucifer precisely the way he wanted to be seen: kind, generous, caring. And his own teenaged self, falling for the act with embarrassing ease. Falling for Lucifer; falling into that heady mixture of awe and gratitude that had almost felt like love.

Whatever Lucifer wanted to say next was cut off by the sharp ring of his cellphone. He looked between it and Crowley and then sighed.

“Stay right here, darling,” he said.

His departure eased some of the tension gripping Crowley’s muscles. He leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily.

A door shut firmly before Lucifer picked up the phone - his office, where he conducted his businesses. Where Crowley wasn’t welcome and where he wouldn’t even dare to enter, given the ever-present security cameras. 

There weren’t any in the living room. What was here, however, was Lucifer’s laptop, forgotten on the coffee table. 

Crowley circled it, considering his options. It was still on although the screen had gone a shade darker - he swiped the mouse, just to keep it from locking up on him. Well. He could see Lucifer’s bland desktop background, a bunch of files opened, his email account. 

That was risky. Really risky. He had been told to stand still, not snoop through Lucifer’s stuff. But it was altogether too tempting…

He checked the emails. Then the files Lucifer had been working on - notes for an ongoing case. Financial reports. Nothing clearly labelled with “crime”, but then again, he didn’t even fully understand what sort of crimes Lucifer committed. Except arson, by proxy of Hastur. Maybe he relayed the instructions via email? 

He scrolled and scrolled, looking up every ten seconds to make sure Lucifer wasn’t coming back. A lot of this stuff was just mundane details that didn’t tell him anything. Time, he needed more time.

Heart pounding, Crowley took out the pendrive dangling by his keys. It contained his Uni projects but there was space enough to copy everything Lucifer had been working on and then some. He just prayed that he wouldn’t get caught.

Okay, that would have to be enough. He did what he could to wipe the traces of his presence and restore the laptop to the way it had been, and ran away to the kitchen to get himself a drink. By the time Lucifer came back, he could pretend that was all he had been doing.

“I thought I told you to stay where you were,” Lucifer said.

Crowley flinched, sloshing gin over the rim of his glass and onto the stone countertop. 

“Got thirsty,” he said.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Lucifer said icily.

“Thanks,” Crowley replied.

Lucifer was staring at him with a truly terrifying smile. Crowley raised the glass to his lips and refused to look away.

“Who was it at this hour?” Crowley asked.

“A client.”

The answer was cryptic. The air was tense. The pendrive felt like it might burn a hole through the pocket of his jeans. Crowley drank way too much, way too fast, in an effort to settle his fragile nerves, and then tried to continue talking.

“Gotta say, I really admire your work ethic--”

Suddenly, Lucifer was in his space, shoving him against the wall right by the fridge. 

“Shut up,” he hissed. “You--”

Crowley let out a pathetic, whimpering sound. He didn’t want to be afraid of Lucifer. He didn’t want to be angry with him. Yet it was impossible to reconcile the man who had saved his life all those years ago with the one holding him now. Had he always been like this? Had Crowley been that blind?

Ever so slowly, Lucifer loosened his hold.

“Get out of my sight,” he said coolly.

Crowley didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

***

Michael hadn’t been impressed with the contents of the pendrive. They needed something more substantial; hard, irrefutable proof of criminal activity. Something that would give the judge no choice but to place Lucifer behind bars for as long as possible.

Proof.

Crowley had no idea how to find it. He was tired. He missed Aziraphale. Every second he spent around Lucifer brought in a fresh wave of terror and disgust and he was tired of feeling this way. He just--he wanted it to end. 

His alcohol consumption over the past several weeks skyrocketed. Probably not a healthy thing, Crowley thought grimly, ordering a whiskey at Lucifer’s bar. At the very least he no longer had to work here.

“That will be ten quid,” Erik said, sliding him a glass.

“You can bill Lucifer, I’m sure he won’t mind,” Crowley said. 

Erik didn’t argue. He was new, Crowley thought vaguely. What string of unfortunate events had led him to this place? Was he as desperate as Crowley had been? Did he believe this place to be something other than it truly was, out of the simple human need to believe in  _ something _ ?

Maybe he should help. Maybe. Maybe he should have done more, been more. For others, not just for himself. Maybe he could have been forgiven if he had only truly worked for it, if he deserved it. And now--now it was just a mess, and entirely of his own making--

“Crawly,” Hastur said. “Boss wants to see you.”

Crowley shuddered. Lucifer wasn’t supposed to know of his presence here. In fact, he had a meeting scheduled, with some guy called Dr Sable - Crowley had been hoping to learn something valuable. But he hadn’t even bothered to conceal himself and now he was paying for that negligence. In the end, he had no choice but to follow.

The club was incredibly loud today. Base reverberated through his ribcage; stroboscopic lights hurt his eyes. Hastur and Ligur made sure he didn’t stray from his path, no matter how many bodies they had to shove aside. Drunk as they were, the club patrons barely took notice of the three of them.

They went through the staff door and then down a staircase, into the basement. Crowley had vague memories of these corridors back from when he worked here - but which rooms, which corridors? He was disoriented. Too late, he began to wonder if they had put something in his drink. 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore - because he was in a room, and Lucifer was there, and Beelzebub, and Dagon, and others. Because, when he tried to back away, Crowley felt hands on his shoulders, shoving him forward.

“Hi, guys,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”

Lucifer displayed none of the rage Crowley had last seen from him. In fact, he looked almost bored.

“Crowley,” he said. The voices in the room hushed immediately, falling into reverent silence. “We have received some deeply troubling news.”

“Word is, you are a filthy traitor,” Beelzebub said.

A ripple of noise went through the crowd. There were jeers, and gasps. Hastur smiled nastily.

“After everything we have done for you,” Dagon said.

Crowley opened his mouth to protest but no words would come. 

Softly, Lucifer asked: “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

_ You are all insane _ , Crowley wanted to say; he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to deal with Lucifer when he was like this. What might set him off, and what might keep him happy. He didn’t know what role he was supposed to play in this sick, twisted game, and was too tired of guessing.

“No,” he said. “I really don’t.”

The blows, when they came, weren’t a surprise. They were a bloodthirsty bunch, he supposed. He wondered if he might have endep up like them, had Lucifer not singled him out for his personal use. If he hadn’t seen it fit to keep Crowley away from the nastier side of his business.

But now he stood there, watching, as Crowley whimpered on the floor. He could stop it all with a word; he refused to. Crowley tried to make sense of it, but he was too busy cradling his damaged arm to his ribcage. Trying to protect himself from the vicious kicks, hoping against hope that the ringing in his ears was because of the loud music and not a concussion. 

Eventually, when he was barely clinging onto consciousness, he thought he heard Lucifer’s quiet “Enough.” Then strong arms were hauling him upwards and onto a wooden chair. Before he realized what was happening, they had bound his ankles and wrists, trapping him there. The pain in his left arm was agonizing, drowning the other aches; broken, definitely broken. He breathed harshly, eyes shut, every nerve ending on fire.

It took a good, long while to realize they were alone again. Crowley tried to crack open his swollen eyelids.

Lucifer’s posture relaxed slightly, his face somehow more human. Either he felt at home around Crowley or had never considered him important enough to warrant a performance.

“Excuse the theatricality,” he said calmly. “Such demonstrations are necessary every once in a while. Both to remind them what happens to traitors and to make them complicit in the act itself.”

Crowley barely managed to glare at him anymore. Before speaking, he gently probed his teeth with his tongue, finding at least one of them loosened.

“I will keep that in mind, if I ever have minions I need to keep in line,” he said.

He didn’t want to ask what was going to happen next. It hurt to even think of a “next”. But so long as he kept Lucifer talking, there was a chance he wouldn’t be able to do anything else.

“There will be questions,” Crowley said. Carefully, so as not to spit out the loosened tooth. “Investigation. Michael will see right through you--”

“Michael isn’t going to do anything to me,” Lucifer said. “I know her too well. I know how she thinks.” He smiled at his memories. “We were in the same year, remember? And, believe it or not, we were almost exactly alike. Shared those precious ideals about justice and the nobility of our profession.”

Crowley snorted. He couldn’t imagine Lucifer idealistic or innocent. And Lucifer must have misunderstood the source of his amusement, because his expression mellowed out into a look that was almost fond.

“You get it, don’t you,” he said. “There is no justice. I have won cases through lies, and blackmail, and bribery. I have sent innocent men to jail and watched remorseless criminals walk free. The courtroom has nothing to do with their fabled justice - it’s all a game. And I am simply a better player than Michael could ever hope to be.”

Oh man. Where do you even  _ begin _ ?

“Look,” Crowley said warily. “Just because you can exploit the system doesn’t mean that you should.”

“Give me one good reason why not.” 

In all honesty, he couldn’t. It was just wrong. How did he explain the concept of right and wrong to someone like Lucifer?

“Here’s a fun idea,” Crowley said. “Untie me and we can discuss ethics.”

It was decidedly unnerving, the smile Lucifer gave him. The look in his eyes… Crowley didn’t think his situation could get any worse, yet the unspecified dread sent a shiver down his spine. He flexed his arms, the bindings digging roughly into his skin.

Lucifer watched, wordlessly.

“Listen,” Crowley said. “This is a mistake. You’re risking a lot—“

“Indeed,” Lucifer said, thoughtful. “Lately, where you are concerned, I make nothing but mistakes. I have to say, this is a new experience for me.”

He came closer; Crowley flinched away but, of course, the bindings wouldn’t let him. All he could do was grit his teeth while Lucifer stroked his hair.

“I should have given you over to Asmodeus, the way I originally planned,” Lucifer went on. His fingers traced the lines of Crowley’s cheekbones, his tattoo; his lips. The touch wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and Crowley hated it even more for it. “But I could never bring myself to let you go. Not then. Not now.”

His tone was soft. It shocked Crowley that he could even sound like that, considering the circumstances. That he could then bend down, heedless of Crowley’s split lip and bruised face, and kiss him right on the mouth.

Crowley screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. He didn’t want that anymore, and he couldn’t make the situation any worse by refusing to play along, could he? 

But maybe a part of him did want it. Maybe he wanted to feel the gentle press of Lucifer’s lips. He could imagine the kiss to be all sorts of things: regretful, apologetic. Hopeful, even. Maybe there was hope. Still. 

“I’ll miss you,” Lucifer whispered.

His mouth, his hands - all gone. Crowley’s head was swimming. He tried to focus on Lucifer, now standing a few steps in front of him.

And then he wished he hadn’t.

“No,” he said. 

It was barely a sound - his throat was too dry. He couldn’t speak. He was staring up the barrel of a gun, and he couldn’t speak--

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Lucifer said. He had a gun, and he was pointing it at Crowley. “Unfortunately, you have forced my hand. I can’t trust you anymore. But I also can’t let you go.”

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley repeated, the words falling from his lips, desperate. “Please. Don’t--”

“You are mine, darling,” Lucifer said. His words seem to be coming from a distance greater than the few feet that separated them. “And you will die mine.”

“ _ No, _ ” Crowley said.

But that word had always been useless around Lucifer. And it was useless now.

The bang was deafening; the flash of light seared his eyes. And the force of the blow would have knocked him backwards, had the chair not been bolted to the floor. Still it was enough to knock the breath out of him; Crowley was deaf and blind and couldn’t breathe--

_ Breathe _ . He had to--he had to--

His chest expanded.  _ Breathe. _ The pain was paralzying; he couldn’t  _ stop _ breathing.  _ Breathe _ . His heart was pounding wildly, hammering on the walls of his ribcage. All pain faded, unimportant. All of it, save for the agonizing wound in his chest. 

He could taste metal. Blood was flooding his mouth. He tried to spit it out but even that movement was almost too much to bear. His vision swam, he couldn’t focus--

But he was alive. Inexplicably, and against all odds, he was still alive. The pounding of his heart filled his ears but it went  _ on _ , it refused to slow down; warm, sticky blood was pouring down his skin, and he could barely breathe, but he was  _ alive _ . 

He almost wished he wasn’t. Because now he had all this, all this  _ time  _ to contemplate the life slowly leeching out of him. Everything on Earth he still wanted to do and see and taste, and would never get a chance to. Sins he never got to repent for, and Heaven he would never be permitted to enter. 

Tears were drying out quickly on his cheeks; dry sobs wrecked his chest.  _ What have you done _ , he wanted to ask; but couldn’t.

Lucifer was watching him. And it struck Crowley, as he was beginning to lose consciousness, that his face would be the last thing he ever got to see. And that--that just wasn’t fair. 

So Crowley closed his eyes tight and thought of other things. Of Aziraphale, whose face was never far from his memory. Who he could see now, much more real and important than whatever was happening to him at the moment.

It was Crowley’s last conscious thought.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we proceed, I'm happy to tell you that the wonderful [sarcatholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic) decided to write a prequel for this fic! It's all about Crowley's struggles with his queerness and religious guilt, as well as a more detailed look into him falling into Lucifer's clutches. I wholeheartedly recommend you give it a read! You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166449/chapters/52915804).
> 
> Now, onward! Hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Hell wasn’t what Crowley had expected. 

For one thing, Aziraphale was there. He most certainly did not belong in Hell - or did he? Crowley felt a surge of guilt at the thought. Because if he did, that would be entirely Crowley’s own fault. He was the one who had tempted Aziraphale into sin.

Along with the memory of that day came other memories: the fire. His fingers twitched in the thin, unpleasant sheets. Wasn’t his bed. Wasn’t his room. Right. Because this was Hell, right? He died and ended up here...

It looked shockingly mundane. A bit drab but well-lit, with three beds against the wall, two of them empty. And Aziraphale, asleep in a chair.

Maybe - and it felt silly and a bit blasphemous to even consider it - this wasn’t Hell. In Her infinite mercy, God had taken pity on him. Purgatory, then? He most certainly didn’t consider it to be Heaven.

Crowley shifted in bed, and then winced. Yep, there most definitely was something that felt like a plastic tube stuck up his dick. That didn’t seem very Heavenly at all.

There were more tubes and cables, now that he thought about it. Stuck to his chest, his arm, his finger. His left arm was covered in a cast, from above the elbow and past where his fingers began. A cuff around his right arm began to buzz and then tighten; he felt his own pulse more acutely now. Then, after a while, the cuff deflated again, and the monitor above him beeped. He wanted to take a better look at it but his muscles didn’t want to obey him. Every inch of his body felt stiff with disuse.

It wasn’t the most pleasant of feelings.

“Crowley?” 

The voice was hoarse with sleep, and so achingly familiar. Crowley had heard it before; a half-forgotten memory. Or a dream. Either way, it was nice to hear it again, while he was about ninety per cent sure he was, actually, still alive.

“Hey, angel,” he said.

It was an attempt, either way. His throat felt raw and the words weren’t coming out right.

But it didn’t matter, because Aziraphale was right there. The bright blue eyes, the soft smile, the blond curls framing his face; he rested his hands briefly on the metal railings surrounding the hospital bed before reaching out to place a gentle touch on Crowley’s palm, his bare shoulder, his forehead.

Or maybe it was Heaven after all.

“What happened?” Crowley asked. He didn’t really care about the answer, he just wanted Aziraphale to keep talking.

Aziraphale hesitated. 

“You were found and brought here,” he said. “The doctors said it was a close call. Too close.” His hand tightened on Crowley’s, sorrow clear in his eyes. Crowley tried to return the gesture and reassure him but he was too weak for any actual movement.

“How long?” he asked.

Again, there was a brief moment of hesitation before Aziraphale brought himself to answer: “Seven days.”

“Damn. ‘S pretty long.” Crowley tried to roll his stiff shoulders back, move his head a little. “Have never slept so much.”

He was aware now that aside from the residual discomfort of the catheter and his stiff muscles, there was also a dull ache in his chest. And, boy - that brought him back to the club, the basement. With the memories came a fresh wave of nausea.

“I should get the nurse,” Aziraphale said gently. “They will want to check up on you, I believe.”

“Yeah,” Crowley murmured. “Sorry for worrying you, angel. Didn’t mean to…”

“Hush, dear,” Aziraphale placed a kiss on his forehead. “Rest for now.”

Rest! Rest was the last thing he wanted right now. He had had plenty of  _ rest _ . Alas, he found himself drifting off to sleep, even before he felt Aziraphale’s hand slip from his weak grasp.

***

Over the next two days, Crowley oscillated between sleep and brief periods of wakefulness. Sleeping was the more pleasant of the two, since he felt none of the pain and discomfort. Being awake had its own perks though: of getting to talk with Aziraphale, however brief and meaningless their exchanges were. 

The nurses were adamant he start getting up, however. They tried to feed him thin broth, which Crowley’s stomach rejected at first. But he would persevere. Somewhere on the path to recovery lay a steaming hot shower, which he very badly needed.

It took a while before he began to notice his surroundings. The sluggishness off his thoughts could be attributed to pain meds, which were lovely and wonderful and left him in a pleasant haze most of the time, but did have their side-effects.

“Why is the police here?” he asked early in the morning on the third day.

Aziraphale, who had been trying to teach him to play chess, cast a quick look at Crowley over the rim of his reading glasses.

“For your protection,” he said. “I’m sorry to say but you might still need it.”

Crowley took a moment to process that.

“Lucifer isn’t in jail, then?”

The thought had kept him awake half the night, until he caved in and asked a doctor for a sedative. It was also the subject they had been very careful to avoid, knowing that it would signal the end of something. This period of grace, while Crowley recovered.

“He was arrested,” Aziraphale said. His serious tone signaled that he, too, understood the implications of having this conversation. “They let him go the very same day. Although he is still bound to face charges.”

Crowley made a non-committal noise in response, as he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Carefully, Aziraphale went on: “The police will want your statement, of course. For now, the doctors haven’t declared you mentally and physically capable of testifying, but as soon as they do…”

Crowley nodded, nervously toying with a black pawn. 

“Suppose we can’t put it off forever,” he mumbled.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “The sooner you tell them what happened, the sooner they can put that,” he struggled visibly to keep himself from cursing, “ _ man _ away.”

Somehow, Crowley didn’t think it would be that easy, although he refrained from saying so.

“Who found me?” he asked instead.

The basement. The gunshot.  _ You’re mine _ . He was looking down at the wooden black figurine, rolling it between his fingers. His own pale fingers, the edge of the cast on the arm, the off-white hospital sheets. He didn’t want to look up, in case he saw the underlit basement walls, the jeering faces, the cold look in Lucifer’s eyes--

“I’ve been looking for you,” Aziraphale was saying. Had he said something else before that? Crowley couldn’t be sure. “Ever since I read your letter.”

“Wait, what?” he raised his gaze. “You weren’t supposed to get it, until--”

But there was the letter: in Aziraphale’s hands. And Aziraphale was looking at him with a profoundly sad expression. It was unbearable that Crowley was the one responsible for putting that look on his face. For making him feel like that,  _ ever _ .

“Gabriel was concerned,” Aziraphale said. 

Concerned about what? Surely not Crowley, he had made that much abundantly clear. Although to be fair, Crowley should probably be grateful he even bothered to deliver the letter, rather than throw it in the nearest garbage bin.

“He was right to be, mind you,” Aziraphale went on, a hint of reproach in his voice. “What were you thinking when you wrote it?”

Crowley blinked slowly. “You’re not seriously mad about the letter, are you?”

Aziraphale stared at him in disbelief. 

“Of course I’m mad about the letter. It read like a suicide note.”

“Well, it wasn’t one.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Aziraphale’s voice hitched. “Crowley, I thought--and then you weren’t picking up my phone calls--”

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley shifted guiltily. “Sorry about that. I didn’t want to contact you in case Lucifer found out.”

“Why haven’t you told me what was really going on?” Aziraphale sounded seriously upset right now. “Why hasn’t Michael? It took so much effort to get any information out of her.” He took in a steadying breath. “I would have gotten there much earlier if she had just told me... and no one at the club seemed to have seen you except the bartender. By then I must admit, I was getting a little frazzled. Luckily the police took me seriously when I called them.”

“The bartender,” Crowley repeated. “Erik?”

He rather hoped not. If Erik had rattled the whole thing out because he didn’t yet know he wasn’t supposed to, well - he did not want to know what Lucifer might do to him in retaliation. 

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said.

There was a moment of tense silence while Aziraphale struggled to keep his emotions in check. Just like the day after the fire. Crowley wasn’t sure what had made him that way, so used to bottling up his discomfort, as if he had once been made to apologize for every word he spoke, every inch of space he occupied. Simply for existing.

“Lucky you found me, though,” Crowley said brightly. “Might not--uh--might not have made it otherwise.”

His grin faded when he saw Aziraphale’s expression.

“Lucky,” Aziraphale repeated. 

“Come off it, angel,” Crowley said gently. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry about the latter. I should have called--”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes widened. “No--Crowley,  _ no _ . It’s me who should be sorry. You have nothing to apologize for. I didn’t want to make you feel like you ought to, it’s just that--” the words were said in a rush, but now he paused and considered his next statement with more care: “There are things you can’t just put in a letter. You can’t say those things to me and then deny me the chance to say them back.”

Crowley swallowed. 

“Uh. Right.” He cleared his throat. “In this case, can I have the letter back?”

It had been a stupid,  _ stupid  _ idea. He was burning it the second Aziraphale handed it over.

“Goodness, no,” Aziraphale clutched it protectively to his chest. “I am keeping it.”

Crowley groaned.

“Angel, this is extremely embarrassing.”

“Honest and heartfelt, that’s what it is,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“Exactly what I said! Embarrassing.”

He could see the corner of Aziraphale’s lip twitching and then got to watch him start to chuckle softly. Instead of surrendering the letter, he put it back in his pocket and smoothed his waistcoat over it. Crowley made a half-hearted attempt at grabbing it halfway, but all he managed to catch was Aziraphale’s hand.

It wasn’t a bad deal, all things considered.

He was feeling terribly mushy but sobered up quickly.

“But I do have things to apologize for,” he said seriously. “Angel. The bookshop--I should have seen it coming,” Crowley went on. “I should have anticipated he would retaliate--”

Unsure how to continue, Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand tighter.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” Aziraphale said earnestly. He bent his head to catch Crowley’s lowered gaze. “You are not to blame for that man’s actions. You never were.”

How did Aziraphale not get it? He was smart, one of the smartest people Crowley knew!

“If I hadn’t tried to break up with him, none of this would have happened.”

“I don’t have much personal experience on the subject, but I would imagine that fearing your partner’s violent reaction is actually a very good reason to break up with someone,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley looked at him helplessly.

“You’ve done nothing to deserve it, angel.”

“Neither have you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, because that? That was bullshit. Crowley had plenty on his conscience. His history with Lucifer was a bit more complicated than Aziraphale seemed to believe and there was fault on both sides. 

_ You’re mine _ . 

He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale instead. It was an impulse, poorly thought-through but impossible to question once their lips met. And it struck him that he was here,  _ alive _ . He got to do this, he got to kiss Aziraphale, got to feel the heat of his mouth, the scent of him, the soft press of his fingers on Crowley’s skin. It was so unlike anything Crowley had experienced before and he was just endlessly grateful to God that he got to experience it now.

Way too soon, Aziraphale was pulling away.

“I don’t think this is the best time, my dear,” he said gently.

“Why not?” Crowley asked.

Maybe it was the unflattering hospital gown, he thought wildly. He already felt a bit drunk. Or the fact that he hadn’t shaved, or washed his hair properly, or--

“You were almost killed by your partner,” Aziraphale said, way too serious. “Someone you trusted. I don’t think you should rush into another relationship right away.”

“You are nothing like him, angel,” Crowley said.

But he wasn’t so sure anymore. Not that he doubted Aziraphale; he would never. Aziraphale was pure and kind and  _ genuine _ . Crowley, however.

Crowley wasn’t pure, not with how deep Lucifer was ingrained into him. The scar on his chest, the vivid memories of his face, his voice; he would never be free of it. Aziraphale was sensible for refusing to share in that taint. Crowley shouldn’t have asked. Crowley should apologize for asking.

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said very quietly. “That I will do or say something hurtful and you will be too frightened to tell me.”

Crowley shook his head, disbelieving. “You could never hurt me, angel.”

But Aziraphale only gave him a sad smile.

“I am hurting you right now, aren’t I?”

That--that was something he couldn’t deny.

***

According to Michael, the case was looking pretty solid. Lucifer’s lawyers denied everything, all the evidence was claimed to be circumstantial, and literally every witness so far had lied through their teeth, swearing to Lucifer’s innocence - but Michael was optimistic. Especially with Crowley’s testimony, the description of his injuries, the fact that he was found bleeding out in the club basement by the Met.

Soon enough, Crowley would get to see Lucifer convicted. He would yet answer for everything - the bookshop, his threats against Aziraphale. In a roundabout way, justice would be served.

There were only a couple of problems to sort out first.

“I look like shit,” Crowley announced.

His left arm was still in a cast and he couldn’t pull the jacket sleeve over it, leaving it hanging limp at his side. He was still on pain meds and walked a little unsteadily. The bruises hadn’t quite faded from his skin.

“This might actually be to our advantage,” Michael said.

“Indeed,” Gabriel said. “The more pathetic you appear, the easier it will be to present you as the victim.”

Aziraphale winced behind them and shot Crowley an apologetic look.

“You look perfectly fine,” he said. But then he walked over and reached out to fix Crowley’s tie, fussing with every crease in his button-up as he did so.

The siblings wore near-identical looks of disgust. Crowley smirked at them. He wouldn’t mind kissing Aziraphale just to rile them up further, but it wasn’t worth the risk of upsetting the priest. He wasn’t yet sure where they stood. What sort of arrangement they might come to, with time. 

But they would have the time. That was the important thing.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Of course,” Crowley said. “Let’s drag this bastard, shall we?”

He marched into the courtroom in high spirits. Life would be beautiful again; Lucifer hadn’t managed to kill him, or break him. Lucifer would see him now, free and alive.

Crowley’s steps faltered. There was Lucifer, right there behind the desk. Wearing a dark suit tailored to perfection, not a hair out of place. He observed the courtroom with polite attention, maybe just a hint of irritated weariness.  _ I’m very busy and important, and you’re all wasting my time. But I’ll be civil with you because that’s the kind of person I am. _

He looked straight at Crowley.

Disappointed. Calm. As if Crowley had let him down. As if he had expected better of him. As if—

Crowley realized he had stopped dead in his tracks, like an idiot. He resumed walking.

The others were here, too. Beelzebub, looking decidedly more female-presenting than they were normally comfortable with. Dagon. Mephistopheles. He remembered their faces as they watched him get beaten up, tied to a chair, left at Lucifer’s mercy. But they were so calm now, so collected; how could they be so calm?

Anthony J. Crowley was called as a witness. He took his seat in the stand, grateful, as his legs felt like they might give up at any moment.

Michael was saying something. Crowley didn’t feel right; everything was a bit blurry and distorted, as if his head had been plunged underwater. As if he was drowning.

She was looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled. “What was the question?”

Michael sighed. “Can you please describe the events of the second of November?”

The events? Yeah, that was… that was the day. He went to the club. They took him to the basement. They—

He swallowed thickly. He had rehearsed the story beforehand, had listened to Michael, about all the potential pitfalls the defense had surely prepared for him. He knew what he had to say.

But the words were gone. There was nothing but saliva rapidly filling his mouth. He swallowed again.

Lucifer continued to look at him, expressionless. No, not that - disappointed.  _ You’re mine _ . His hands were folded on the wooden table, he wasn’t holding a gun.  _ Darling,  _ he had said. And then fired—

A loud bang startled Crowley. He searched the room, panicked, breathless at the sudden flare of pain in his chest.

It was just a member of the jury, who had dropped something on the floor. Why had it been so loud?

“Mr. Crowley?” Michael asked, frowning.

He was supposed to be talking. He tried to look at her but he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Lucifer. It was better to watch him; he could anticipate things when he looked at Lucifer. He’d know what to expect: pain or pleasure, his anger or the rare moments of genuine affection. Whenever Lucifer was in the room, he always commanded Crowley’s attention. And now he couldn’t look away.

“Sssorry,” Crowley said, more a hiss than a word. If he opened his mouth he wouldn’t be able to contain the nausea.

Lucifer’s lip twitched. The movement was so subtle it might have gone unnoticed, but Crowley was used to observing him so, so carefully…

“I—“

Crowley needed a moment. He needed to be alone, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. And there was Lucifer with that dark look in his eyes, Michael with her contempt and impatience, the indifferent judge, the circle of jeering half-familiar faces who were there when they had beaten him, hurt him, nearly killed him—

He felt a hand on his shoulder, hauling him upwards, to that chair - he froze, unable to even defend himself now, weak, pathetic, broken—

But the touch wasn’t violent. They weren’t yanking him backwards, they were simply leading him away, down a corridor and narrow poorly-lit staircase, down, towards the basement—

Away from the room. Across a brightly-lit hall. Then a small bathroom, with a mirror and a sink he was holding onto with his one good hand, so hard it turned his knuckles white.

“Crowley?”

It was Lucifer’s voice. Crowley froze. Nothing but a whimper made it past his lips and he was staring stubbornly ahead, at his own deathly pale reflection. Lucifer had found him somehow, but it didn’t matter, Crowley couldn’t see him so it was all right.

“Crowley?” The voice was more urgent and much closer now. Crowley’s heart was beating so fast it actually  _ hurt,  _ slamming against the walls of his chest, his injured ribcage.

But he didn’t run. He hadn’t run before and he wasn’t running now. Why was he like this? Too weak to defend himself, too pathetic to even try to escape—

Lucifer was touching him. He put his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, drew him, limp and unresisting, into a tight embrace.

Crowley’s breath hitched; tears stung in his eyes. He buried his face in Lucifer’s shoulder, incapable of facing him now—

Something was off though. Lucifer seemed shorter, shorter even than Crowley. The fabric of his jacket was all wrong, he smelled different; once he forced himself to open his eyes, Crowley noticed that the hair was too pale, the colours too bright.

“Angel?” he asked in a small voice.

“I’m here, my dear.” It was Aziraphale’s voice, unmistakable in its softness. How could Crowley have been so wrong? “I’m here, darling.”

_ Darling _ . Crowley shuddered, light-headed with panic. But it was all right, it would be okay: it was Aziraphale saying the word, not Lucifer. It was okay if it was Aziraphale--

“Shit,” Crowley said. “I can’t do this, angel. I can’t—“

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said gently. “You don’t have to go back there. You’re safe now.”

Ever so slowly, Crowley felt himself relax. His heart slowed down to a more reasonable pace, his breathing evened; with it, the dull ache in his chest became less noticeable. Aziraphale didn’t let go of him, not until Crowley began to pull away to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“Well,” he said awkwardly. “That was embarrassing.”

Aziraphale’s expression remained serious, concerned.

“Crowley—“

“I do have to go back there,” Crowley said. “I want to.”

He wanted to hear their lies exposed. More than anything, he wanted someone to look Lucifer in the eye and tell him he’s guilty. It was high time someone did.

Not Crowley. But someone.

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Aziraphale said. “Maybe you could ask them to arrange some other solution?”

It was tempting enough to hide somewhere else, where he could believe Lucifer wouldn’t be able to get him. But he knew from experience that no such place existed. And he wanted to see Lucifer’s reaction with his own eyes so that he’d know how much trouble he was putting himself in. 

Michael was waiting for them outside of the bathroom, her lips pressed tightly together.

“We had a deal,” she said accusingly. “All you had to do was repeat what you’ve already told me!”

“Sorry,” Crowley said. 

At the thought of going back to the courtroom, the same panic seized his throat and squeezed all air out of his lungs. 

“I’ll do it,” He said. “Just not right now. A few more days, that’s all I need.”

“Everyone’s already here!” Michael said. “Do you want me to go back there and tell them they wasted their time?”

“Michael, please,” Aziraphale said. He had placed his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “He’s been through a lot.”

“I’m  _ fine,” _ Crowley said, more sharply than he intended. It was getting to be too much: Aziraphale’s concern was sweet but humiliating, as if Crowley was too fragile to take care of himself. But, most of all, he hated the thought that all those people: judge, jury, lawyers, even Lucifer himself, had come here specifically to listen to Crowley talk. And Crowley couldn’t even do that much.

“Look,” He said. “I’m sorry. I just need a few more days. And then I’ll—I’ll do it. Promise.”

Michael was staring at him, unimpressed.

“Can we really trust you?” she asked.

“I rather think you don’t have a choice,” Aziraphale said quietly. The look he was giving Michael was shockingly devoid of respect.

“Fine,” Michael said coldly. “I can ask the judge for continuance. Don’t get yourself killed in the meantime.”

“You already have my testimony, don’t you?” 

She had insisted on recording a video of him talking about what had happened, just in case. If it came down to it, that would be all she could make use of.

“I’ll let the judge know,” she said. After a pause, she added: “And Lucifer. In case he thinks killing you now might help him win.”

“How fucking nice of you,” Crowley said, then stormed out of the court house.

The light outside was a bit too bright for his tastes. He fumbled in his pocket for a pair of sunglasses and secured them on his face. There. All better.

He heard the now-familiar careful footsteps as Aziraphale joined him. Desperate not to discuss what had just happened, Crowley searched for another topic. And then he noticed something he probably should have noticed ages ago.

“You aren’t wearing the collar,” he said.

Self-conscious, Aziraphale raised his hand to his throat, touching the tartan-patterned bow tie that was there instead of the white priest’s collar.

“Well. No,” he said, carefully.

“You haven’t been for days,” Crowley said.

He tried not to sound accusatory. Aziraphale flinched nonetheless.

“This is a conversation for another time, I think,” he said.

Right. They were in the middle of a busy street, in front of the court house. They might go home but—that was the problem, wasn’t it? Neither really had a home anymore. Aziraphale was staying with Michael and Gabriel, too worn out to look for his own place in London’s vicious housing market. Crowley had just been discharged from the hospital. His only option was the apartment in Mayfair, except he had a feeling he was no longer welcome there.

“Lunch?” he suggested.

It was as if a switch had been flipped: Aziraphale brightened instantly.

“Oh, I know just the place!”

It was a quiet and cozy sushi restaurant, which they must have visited before because it looked vaguely familiar. Crowley ordered without looking at the menu.

Half an hour passed on idle chit chat. Crowley couldn’t complain: it felt peaceful and domestic, especially after the horrible day he had had. No one was staring at him except Aziraphale, with his kind sky-blue eyes.

Eventually, Aziraphale put down his chopsticks and fiddled with the bow tie.

“I thought about quitting,” he said.

“Quitting what?” Crowley asked. “Priesthood? The Church? Religion in general?”

“Priesthood,” Aziraphale said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 

Crowley swallowed.

“Because of me?” he asked in a small voice. “And what I did?”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Crowley said. “After—after the fire.”

There was a hint of colour in Aziraphale’s cheeks. In any other circumstances, Crowley would find it endearing.

“In a way,” Aziraphale sighed. “But it’s a decision I was bound to make eventually. Better late than never.”

He tried to smile but Crowley failed to see the joke.

“I always thought you liked being a priest,” he said.

“Oh, I did. It was incredibly humbling and deeply rewarding to be with people during the most important occasions in their lives. Weddings, funerals, christenings… to listen to their problems and offer help or word of prayer.” Aziraphale paused. “But, too often, I felt—well. Undeserving. Whatever help I might have been able to offer, they could get from someone more capable of giving it. And it was as if I was in the way of that.”

…. what in the actual Hell?

“But that’s nonsense,” Crowley said. “You know this, right?”

“Is it?” Aziraphale smiled sadly. “You know me, my dear. You know I’ve never been fully committed to my vocation. There are too many things I can’t help but enjoy here on Earth - too many sins - to focus on our eternal lives.”

Crowley remained silent. 

“I tried to be too many things, but that simply isn’t possible,” Aziraphale said. “The Bishop was right - I should take this opportunity to embrace what’s truly important. But when I found out about the bookshop, I couldn’t think of God at all. I just thought about how unfair it is to see centuries of knowledge and memories gone. Destroyed. Forgotten.”

“I’m sorry—“ Crowley began.

“No, don’t you dare blame yourself,” Aziraphale said. “If If was a crime, you weren’t the one who committed it.”

Crowley wanted to argue the point but there was something more important they had to clear first.

“Look, angel,” he said carefully. “When I was younger, I spent a long time looking for help. Visited a bunch of different churches, back in Ireland, and here in London where I first arrived. They all told me the same thing my parents told me: that I can’t be both Catholic and queer.” He frowned. “Well, homosexual. Which I’m not by the way, they just never let me stay long enough to explain the difference.” That was beside the point, though, and a conversation he wasn’t quite ready to have. “Angel, you can’t walk around thinking that you being kind to people doesn’t matter. It does.”

Aziraphale dropped his gaze to his plate.

“I haven’t been as kind as I could have been.”

“To me you have been,” Crowley argued.

A smile touched Aziraphale’s lips. And it wasn’t so bad, was it? It couldn’t have been. They’d see Lucifer imprisoned, get Aziraphale to see sense again, and then figure out what to do about their relationship. Everything would be all right.

For a moment, Crowley even managed to convince himself that he believed that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update is better than no update, right? :')
> 
> Huge thanks to [Sarcatholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic) and [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal) for their support and beta-reading! Any remaining mistakes are mine, feel free to point them out if you catch them. This is also a friendly remainder to check out the [wonderful prequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166449/chapters/52915804) Sarcatholic wrote if you haven't already!

The Bentley had to go. That was the first thing on his to-do list at this point: sell the car. Get his own place.

Easier said than done. Crowley couldn’t drive properly with one hand immobilized so he simply climbed into the driver’s seat and sat there for a while. He even put on Queen - the CD had been stuck there for years now, he couldn’t get the bloody thing to open - sick as he was of it, Freddie’s voice was comforting and familiar.

Right. Right. The car.

There were other issues to consider, regarding his stuff. The plants, what to do about the plants? He had spent so long tending, coaxing, and threatening them into perfection, it’d be a shame to dump them now. Maybe he could sell them too, or give them away, or… Well…

He wiped his face with his sleeve and tried to breathe normally. Yes, he was crying again, the sad pathetic fuck-up that he was. This was just a  _ car _ . Just  _ plants _ . Crowley had other problems right now, it was stupid to fixate on, on--things. 

Okay. Okay. He was ready; ready to get out of here and do what had to be done. Ready.

Almost.

***

The adjourned court hearing was set to occur exactly a week after the first one. Which meant that Crowley had seven days to get over himself and his issues so that he could testify. So that Michael could put that bastard behind bars.

Six days. Five. Four.

On the fourth day, Lucifer called.

Crowley stared down at his phone, caught entirely off-guard. Lucifer’s name flashed on the screen as it so often had in the past. He didn’t like waiting for Crowley to pick up; he was a busy man and couldn’t afford to waste whatever free time he might have had on waiting for other people. Certainly not Crowley.

Crowley took in a deep breath and slid his thumb across the screen, tentatively bringing the phone to his ear. As if it might go off in his hand.

“Hello, darling.”

The words washed over him, eliciting a shudder he was glad no one could see. His hands were shaking; his voice would too, which was why he waited so long before answering.

“What do you want?” he asked hoarsely.

“I need to have a word with you,” Lucifer said in that silky, pleasant tone he could fake so well. “Face to face.”

Crowley laughed. It was probably the stress affecting his brain function at this point.

“You’re usually a bit more subtle,” he said. “Where is the pit you want me to fling myself into?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Crowley,” Lucifer chided. “You agree to talk about our private affairs in a room full of strangers but you can’t spare five minutes to have a conversation with me?”

_ Private affairs _ . This was getting ridiculous. But he had a point, didn’t he? There were things Crowley couldn’t even admit in front of Aziraphale, much less under Michael’s condescending gaze. 

“Come see me,” Lucifer said after the pause went on for too long.

He was waiting for a response. Crowley didn’t know what possessed him to agree, except this: he remembered looking at Lucifer as if he had personally hung every star in the sky. And a part of him longed to see that man again.

***

The elevator moved up, but it felt otherwise: like he was plunging deeper underwater. Like he was drowning, unable to say which way was up. Which way was salvation. Crowley leaned his forehead against the mirrorred wall and tried to get a grip on his frazzled nerves.

He had walked this path before, hundreds of times. He knew this corridor, this door, the three silver sixes above the doorbell. The feeling of apprehension wasn’t unfamiliar, either, although it had never been quite this extreme.

Lucifer invited him inside. Being in his presence again seized Crowley’s chest in a tight grip, but he could work through the panic now. It would be a good exercise for the trial. He forced himself to breathe, and then to take a careful look at his surroundings, grounding him in the present. He didn’t want to be launched back to that basement, didn’t want that awful moment of confusion, when he didn’t even know what was real and what wasn’t.

Lucifer was definitely real. Sometimes it felt like he was the only real thing left in the world.

“How’s the house arrest?” Crowley asked casually.

He had hoped the question might annoy Lucifer, but he barely reacted. “Bearable. May I see your phone?”

“What for?”

“Crowley.”

“Nuh-uh,” Crowley said. “You wanted to talk. So talk, come on, I don’t have all day--”

With only one good hand, he was even less able to defend himself against Lucifer. Although that would never happen even if Crowley had been in peak physical condition: as soon as he felt those hands on him, he froze again, a phantom pain shooting through his chest, sheer terror overtaking his muscles--

But Lucifer merely removed the phone from the pocket of his jacket. His eyebrow quirked in amusement at Crowley’s reaction; Crowley silently cursed his own cowardice.

“As I said, I’d rather keep our conversation private,” Lucifer spoke, turning off the device. “Unlike you, I am not comfortable sharing the details of my private life.”

“I haven’t  _ said _ anything,” Crowley said hotly. Angry at Lucifer, at Michael, at himself; it didn’t even matter anymore.

“No, you haven’t,” Lucifer’s voice turned softer, sympathetic. “You looked so frightened, darling. It was painful to watch.”

Shame burned even hotter than anger. And, unlike anger, there was no easy way to be rid of it. No rash act of violence could wipe away the memory of sitting inside that room, and his breakdown, and everyone who witnessed it. He couldn’t even come up with an excuse, a joke,  _ anything  _ that might preserve his dignity at this point.

So he remained silent. Stubbornly silent.

“And now Michael wants you to go back there,” Lucifer continued. “I’ve told you before. She doesn’t care about you or the things you go through…”

“And you do?” Crowley said sharply. “You  _ shot  _ me. You--”

He couldn’t continue. And now he was probably also going to cry, because--because that was just the person he was, apparently. Weak. Pathetic. Wallowing in self-pity. Lucifer could see it, the judge could see it, even Aziraphale could see it.

“I trusted you,” he said, hating himself for how young he sounded. How small. 

Lucifer placed a hand on his shoulder. That was almost too much: Crowley choked on a sob and tried to move back, but there was nowhere to run: once again, he found himself trapped between a wall and Lucifer. It was alarming how often they ended up in this exact position.

“I trusted you, too,” Lucifer said quietly. “And then you cheated on me.”

“That’s not what happened!”

“Isn’t it?”

It  _ wasn’t _ . Wasn’t how Crowley remembered it, anyway. But Crowley’s memory couldn’t always be trusted.

“Still,” Crowley said. “This was a little extreme, wasn’t it?”

He couldn’t force himself to meet Lucifer’s gaze so he looked down at this shirt, his broken arm, the jacket thrown awkwardly over it. Besides, he didn’t always need to look at the man to know what he was feeling; he could feel it in the harsh, unrelenting grip on his shoulder, in the pattern of Lucifer’s breathing.

“You had my trust and you threw it away like it was nothing,” Lucifer hissed. “I saved your life, over and over again, and you act like you don’t owe me a damn thing.”

Crowley felt like he was going to be sick. 

“I know I owe you,” he said, grasping at the final straw of defiance. “And you did save my life. That doesn’t mean you get to take it back when it suits you.” He forced himself to look up. “That’s murder, Lucifer. And you will go to jail for that.”

For a moment, he thought he might have done it. Lucifer’s hand was still on his shoulder, its grip painfully tight. It wouldn’t take much to move it a little further; to wrap it around Crowley’s throat; to throttle him. No guns, no weapons. Just Lucifer’s bare hands and Crowley’s inability to fight him off.

He knew they were both thinking it. But then the moment passed; Lucifer let him go.

“What do you hope to gain from all this?” Lucifer asked, cool and collected once more. “Money?”

“I don’t want your money,” Crowley spat out.  _ I never did, I only wanted you-- _

“But you did take it,” Lucifer said. “The job, the money, the apartment. Everything I gave you, you took. Now you claim I forced you to?”

Crowley shook his head and said nothing.

“So what is it that you want, darling? That you would risk repeating that humiliating spectacle once again?” Lucifer’s voice was dripping with faux sympathy. “I would spare you the pain, if I could. If you would only tell me what it is that you  _ want _ .”

He was closer once more, too close. His fingers caught a loose strand of Crowley’s hair, his voice lowered to a murmur. 

“Let me,” he said. “It will be easier for you.”

His proximity was driving Crowley insane. Haltingly, he said: “I want you to leave me alone.”

Lucifer sighed.

“After everything I’ve done for you? That’s hurtful, darling.”

“I’m not your darling,” Crowley said.

Lucifer’s smile was patient.

“Oh, you are,” he said. “You always will be. I’m not like you, Crowley. I don’t find it so simple to move on.” His heated breath was on Crowley’s cheek, words seeping directly into his ear. “Your family. Your Church. Me. How easily you forget everyone who was once important to you. Who you once claimed to love.”

Crowley’s vision blurred. He tried to breathe but there was something lodged in his throat; his exhales came out as sobs. Those were accusations he couldn’t defend himself from. Because maybe - if he had tried harder, if he had prayed more… but he didn’t. He gave up. It was the easiest thing, to give up.

Luckily Lucifer wasn’t interested in his defenses. He offered sympathy when Crowley didn’t feel like he deserved it, as he had all those years ago. And Crowley always preferred to remember his kindness over his cruelty.

“I’m sorry,” he said. A part of him screamed that it was wrong: he shouldn’t be the one apologizing here. Right?  _ Right _ ? “I--”

“Ssh,” Lucifer said gently. Both of his hands were on Crowley’s shoulders now, pulling him into an embrace. It took every effort not to give into the comforting gesture. “Here is what we will do,” Lucifer went on. “You will tell them exactly what I tell you to say. And then I will do as you ask. I will leave you alone.” His voice dropped down to a low whisper; his hands came to rest lightly on Crowley’s hips. “Unless you come to your senses, that is. Unless you come back to where you belong.”

Crowley shoved him away with his right hand and stalked off. It was easier to think without Lucifer hovering over him. It gave him enough space to collect his scattered thoughts.

_ Think _ , he told himself.  _ Think _ \--

“You are going to lose this case,” he said carefully. “You know you are. This is why you brought me here, isn’t it? I’m your last hope?”

Pride was the mother of all sins, they said. It was definitely so for Lucifer, who valued his pride above everything - Crowley’s life, for example. And to be here, in this position,  _ asking _ for Crowley to relent - it had to hurt. It had to make him angry. And people made mistakes in anger. That was one of the things Michael had tried to teach him. One of the things Crowley had bothered to remember.

Of course, it was an entirely different thing to intentionally annoy Lucifer. Never ended well. And it wasn’t going to end well now, Crowley could see it in his eyes.

“How highly you think of yourself,” Lucifer said. The words held none of that seductive purr: he was spitting them out. “I hardly need you for anything. I’m trying to do you a favour, Crowley. You’re just too blind to see it.”

“A favour,” Crowley repeated blankly. 

Despite his bravado, his legs began to shake. He couldn’t stand turning away from Lucifer for too long, and he couldn’t look directly at him. When he couldn’t see his hands, those memories resurfaced: of a gun pointed at his chest. A gun firing. Blood filling his lungs. Darkness.

He dropped down on the couch and curled his hand into a fist.

“Indeed,” Lucifer said. He moved with fluid grace, towering over Crowley once more. “I can win this case with or without your assistance, darling. Don’t ever doubt it.”

Crowley was looking down at his knees until he felt Lucifer’s strong, sure hands on his face, tipping his head back. 

“Do you doubt me?” Lucifer asked.

Wordlessly, Crowley shook his head, and then hated himself a little as a self-satisfied smile curled Lucifer’s lips. 

“Good,” Lucifer said. “But, you see - here is what is going to happen. When I win, I’m going to sue you for every pound I ever spent on you. With almost ten years of interest. You will never get out of debt.”

It shouldn’t be so frightening, not after he had almost  _ died _ . Compared to that, money really shouldn’t be as important. But he could just about imagine it. If he was pronounced innocent, Lucifer would have every right to drag him through the mud. To obliterate him. Up until this moment, Crowley had just never expected he would stoop so low. 

“You don’t need the money,” Crowley said.

“It’s not the money, it’s the principle.”

Of fucking course it was. 

“That’s not a great incentive to hold back, then,” Crowley said with more calmness than he felt. “Michael will win. You know she will.”

Lucifer laughed.

“If that happens - and believe me, the chances are slim enough to be negligible,” he leaned down once more, cradling Crowley’s face between his hands. “If I go to jail, what’s to stop me from committing the crime that put me there?” 

His dark, burning eyes were all Crowley could see. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t exaggerating. He seldom did.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Lucifer said softly. “I think I might spare you. Against all reason, I quite like having you around.” 

_ Then why did you try to murder me,  _ Crowley felt like asking. If only he could bring himself to speak.

“Your priest, however. Your  _ Aziraphale _ .”

Lucifer spoke the name with such venom, such contempt. It made Crowley’s blood run colder. He could only stare helplessly at the man he once imagined he knew; and he was studied in return, Lucifer drinking in the sight of his terror.

“I will make sure you get to see what I do to him,” Lucifer said. “For however long it takes, I will make you watch.”

Crowley felt sick to his stomach. The fire; the flames. He could see them again burning beneath his eyelids. He could smell the smoke. Taste it on his tongue. 

But there was no fire. Not yet. Just Lucifer’s merciless gaze.

“Whoever wins between Michael and me, it won’t make a difference. Not where you are concerned.” He savoured the moment. “Darling, you are fucked either way.”

He was probably right. No, scratch that: he was most definitely right. Once again, Crowley felt like that day he had left his parents’ house, not knowing where to go. With nothing but the clothes on his back and whatever he had managed to grab on his way out, not knowing where -  _ if  _ \- he might sleep that night, what he would eat, what--but it was worse now, infinitely worse. Back then, it was just Crowley’s own life he was risking. Right now it was Aziraphale, sweet kind Aziraphale, who had already lost so much by associating with Crowley. 

No. That couldn’t happen. Crowley wouldn’t let it.

Lucifer was still savouring his terror, the creeping realization of defeat. Crowley swallowed.

“And if I agree?” he asked. “Who’s to say you won’t do these things anyway?”

“I would never break my word,” Lucifer said. “I would not lie. If you bothered to know me at all, you would know that, too.”

His fingers were on Crowley’s hair, toying with the reddish strands; his knuckles brushed Crowley’s bruised cheek and the snake tattoo. And then they moved lower, over the muscles of Crowley’s neck, the collar of his shirt--

“You have three days to decide,” Lucifer said.

Three days. That was enough time to discuss it, at least. He could consult--

“If you ask for Michael’s opinion, remember this: she doesn’t care whether you live or die. She has already proven it. The only thing that matters to her is victory.” Lucifer’s hands were on Crowley’s ribcage. Even the soft touch was too much for the tender tissue; Crowley couldn’t help a hiss of pain. “But you are smarter than this, aren’t you?”

“So far all evidence points to the contrary,” Crowley muttered.

He considered asking Lucifer to let him go but that had never worked before. It likely wouldn’t work now. It was just--it was impossible to separate his gentle caress from the violence he had already inflicted on Crowley. The scent of him was  _ home _ , but it was also  _ danger _ , and Crowley couldn’t make sense of it any more. 

“I trust you will do the right thing this time,” Lucifer said.

Crowley regretted a lot of things. Coming here, for example. Getting a job at that particular bar all those years ago. Even doodling snakes on his cast, because he could tell Lucifer noticed them and was amused by the sight. None of the choices he had made so far seemed right. He barely even knew what “right” meant anymore. 

He shuddered violently when Lucifer’s fingers rested briefly on his belt and then crept upwards, beneath his shirt, their warmth teasing bare skin. For the longest time he couldn’t breathe at all, couldn’t move, couldn’t fight or protest or do  _ anything  _ he should be doing in this situation--

Lucifer felt the dressing covering the wound on Crowley’s chest. His thigh was pressed flush against Crowley’s, his broad shoulders boxing Crowley in against the back of the sofa. 

“What does it feel like,” Lucifer murmured. His breath tickled the skin of Crowley’s neck, followed by a searing-hot kiss of his lips. “To know I’ll always be here, darling? Right here--right over your heart--”

His nails dug possessively into Crowley’s ribs. His hand covered the entire breadth of Crowley’s hammering heart, as if he might, if he so chose, tear it out bloodied and still beating.

“You’re sick,” Crowley said harshly.

Lucifer’s laughter was muffled, his lips still pressed flush to Crowley’s neck. His torso shook with it, shifting ever closer, crowding Crowley on that damned fucking couch.

“Yet here you are,” Lucifer said. Fond. Warm. “With me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Crowley snarled.

“Why not?” Lucifer asked with nothing but mild amusement. “This is as good as it gets for you, isn’t it? Your priest doesn’t want you, after all. You have nothing to go back to.” The edge of his teeth caught the flesh of Crowley’s ear; his nails dug in. “Might as well stop pretending you’re not enjoying this.”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Crowley said. His voice sounded weak to his own ears.

He wasn’t struggling. He wasn’t fighting. Whatever Lucifer felt like doing to him, Crowley allowed. Aziraphale was right about rejecting him if Crowley gave himself up so easily, wasn’t he? Why would someone like Aziraphale want someone like Crowley?

_ Aziraphale _ . The bookshop. The memories were still fresh in his mind. The fire, Lucifer’s cruelty… the absolute  _ bastard  _ that he was, destroying something just because it was loved, just because he wanted to rid the world of something he himself couldn’t possess.

Crowley balled his hand into a fist and shoved him away. His strength was hardly enough to rival Lucifer’s but it might be enough to halt him temporarily.

“Stay away from him,” he said through gritted teeth. 

Lucifer’s gaze dropped to the hand, holding him at arm’s length. He made no move to dislodge it -  _ yet _ . He was watching. Waiting.

Crowley swallowed. 

“Swear to me that you will,” he said. “And you can have your deal.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for why this took so long. Either way, thank you for your patience, if you're still reading it! ♥ And huge, huge thanks to [Sarcatholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic) and [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal) for their continued support and beta-reading!

Does it count as cheating if you’re not actually dating the person you’ve cheated on? Probably not. Sure feels like it, though.

Crowley tried to keep the glum thoughts at bay on the ride over. His hand kept drifting to his lips as if he could physically remove the evidence of his misdeeds in this way – but, of course, he couldn’t. It just made him seem fretful, skittish, nervous. The tube was crowded as ever despite the late hour and he could feel the judgemental stares people cast him over their smartphones. Or maybe it was over the way he kept staring at them in turn.

There could be Lucifer’s men here. Following him. And he was leading them straight to where he was going, like the bloody idiot he was. Never mind that it took him a while to realize where he was headed, the decision having apparently made itself without engaging Crowley’s higher brain functions.

It was too late for a social call but he couldn’t be out on the streets like that. He lifted his hand and pressed the buzzer. After a long while, he heard movement inside.

Gabriel opened the door, already frowning.

“Hi,” Crowley said. Then he hastily corrected himself: “Good evening, excellency. Is, uh. Is Aziraphale here?”

The frown deepened.

“No,” Gabriel said. “He moved out.”

“Oh.”

_Oh_. Fuck. The upscale neighbourhood, the fancy house, the presence of well-known public figures like a bishop and a prosecutor – Aziraphale was _safe _here. Safer than he’d be anywhere else. Lucifer wouldn’t dare touch him.

“Moved where?” Crowley asked.

Gabriel was looking at him strangely, utterly unhelpful bastard that he was. Although Crowley supposed he wasn’t being fair to the man who had, in a roundabout way, helped save his life. And now Crowley owed him for it. What a vile, distasteful concept.

“Right. Never mind.” Crowley sighed. “Thanks, anyway.”

He turned on his heel and left.

In retrospect, he should have probably just called Aziraphale in the first place. It was just that his phone had been switched off ever since Lucifer took it out of his pocket and Crowley felt better leaving it that way. Turning it back on would allow him to track Crowley again. The wonders of modern bloody technology.

With a heavy heart, Crowley switched it on. He was getting a new phone, new number, new _everything_. As soon as he could afford it.

Luckily, Aziraphale picked up fairly quickly. And just the sound of his voice in the speaker eased some of the tension running through Crowley.

“Hello?”

“Hi, angel,” Crowley said. Safe, he was safe. They both were. For now. “Uh. Can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said without a moment’s hesitation. “Would you like to come over?”

Would he? Knowing that in doing so, he might be leading Lucifer straight to Aziraphale? He probably shouldn’t.

“I—” Crowley began.

But Aziraphale was rattling off the address before Crowley could stop him, and by then it was too late. It was somewhere in Camden Town. Returning to Soho so soon would probably be too painful, as Aziraphale would be forced to walk past the ruins of his bookshop. But now—well—Crowley could only turn off the phone again and hope for the best. Aziraphale needed a warning, at the very least.

This apartment was small, empty, soulless. Without his books, Aziraphale seemed incomplete. He showed Crowley around, the short tour only highlighting the bareness of the space.

“I suppose it isn’t much to look at,” Aziraphale said, smiling in that self-conscious way. “Luckily, I do have a kettle. Would you like some tea?”

“How’s about something stronger?”

Aziraphale sighed.

“Yes. That might be preferable.”

It wasn’t the Ritz or one of Aziraphale’s quaint little restaurants where everyone seemed to know his name. A few take-out boxes, a cheap bottle of wine. Crowley wasn’t even pretending to eat – wine worked quicker on an empty stomach.

“You moved out?” he asked.

“I did.” For a few moments, Aziraphale considered his answer. Then he explained: “They assumed we were in a relationship, you and I. I have been given to understand that this sort of behaviour isn’t acceptable under their roof.”

Crowley stared at him blankly.

“But we aren’t dating,” he said. “You would tell me if we were, would you?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened. “My dear boy, I—well, I would never dare to presume—”

He fumbled with his glass. To cover the awkwardness, Crowley asked: “So why move out, then?”

“Ah. Well. It occurred to me that if this is what they might kick me out for then perhaps I shouldn’t be staying there in the first place.”

That made sense. Crowley should be the first to admit that it made sense. And _yet_.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, spurred on by the wine and the stress and the events of today. “You shouldn’t be quitting priesthood, either.”

“Why ever not?” Aziraphale asked. “You hate them, you don’t believe in what they preach, so why do you insist _I _should?”

Crowley hissed in frustration.

“I didn’t have a choice!” he said. “You do. And you’re making the wrong one.”

“I don’t believe that’s true,” Aziraphale said quietly. “And I don’t believe you do, either.”

“Don’t tell me what I believe,” Crowley snarled.

“And vice versa.”

Crowley drummed his fingers on the table. Aziraphale was fuming quietly, avoiding his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said eventually. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s me who owes you an apology,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Crowley said. “It’s your business, not mine. I just—”

Aziraphale’s hand curled warmly around his own, stilling the jittery movements of his fingers.

“You wanted to protect me from a situation that caused you a lot of pain in the past. I appreciate that.”

_In the past_. Hah.

“Wouldn’t phrase it like that, but whatever.”

He didn’t know _how_ to phrase it though. How to tell Aziraphale that he’d lose the respect of people he cared about, regardless of how unworthy of his concern they seemed to Crowley? That he’d be all alone, without a flashlight in the dark? That he’d have to learn how to define himself anew after rejecting the role society had given him? That with every new person he met there would be that brief moment of hesitation, sometimes fear – what if they don’t approve? What if they don’t want to talk to me? What if—

But maybe he was being overly dramatic. This was London, after all, not a small Catholic community back in Ireland. Aziraphale would be _fine_.

Probably. Maybe.

Aziraphale gave his hand one last squeeze and let go. Crowley missed the touch instantly but knew better than to ask for it.

“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” Aziraphale asked.

“Uh. No, actually,” Crowley said.

Silence went on as he gathered courage to speak.

“I went to see Lucifer.”

Aziraphale looked at him blankly, too stunned to speak.

“Yeah… he called me. So I went.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Aziraphale asked, his voice pitched higher. “He could have hurt you!”

“He didn’t,” Crowley said. “It’s not like he’d actually try anything, with Michael and the Met breathing down his neck.”

“That never stopped him before!” Aziraphale said. “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?”

“Thought you might say it’s a bad idea.”

“It _was _a bad idea!”

Crowley shrugged. Sipped his wine. Fidgeted in his seat, spun a chopstick through his fingers.

“Yeah. I know.”

He couldn’t look at Aziraphale right now.

“What did he say, then?” Aziraphale asked.

Here goes, then. Crowley took in a deep breath and described their talk, the offer, Lucifer’s threats – everything. Everything, except the way Lucifer’s touch felt on his skin. The hunger in his gaze when he looked at Crowley’s scar. What he had said then, in that low seductive whisper Crowley could still hear.

Aziraphale let him talk for as long as he had to. Then, after the silence stretched on: “That’s pure nonsense.”

His voice was laced with panic when Crowley didn’t respond.

“You realize this, don’t you? He is trying to manipulate you. Discredit you as a witness. It’s the only way he can possibly win this case. You cannot possibly allow him to do that!”

“He wants revenge,” Crowley said dully. “Against me. And you, angel—”

His words faltered. He closed his eyes but could still see it: fire consuming the bookshop, consuming Aziraphale—

Once again, Aziraphale’s hand rested lightly on top of his own, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t do this. Not on my account.” He hesitated. “I’m not afraid of Lucifer.”

Crowley laughed bitterly. “Then maybe you haven’t been paying attention.”

Aziraphale’s voice hardened. “Oh, I know what he is capable of. Believe me, my dear. I know. But I’m not afraid of him.”

Crowley couldn’t help a fond smile.

“Then you’re braver than I am,” he said.

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale said, softer now. Impossibly soft. “You are incredibly brave to have made it this far. This is just one more obstacle to overcome.”

“And then _what_?”

Crowley didn’t want to argue. He wanted to rest; wrap his arms around Aziraphale and never let go. But he couldn’t even do _that_, with his left arm folded awkwardly and immobilized, and wasn’t about to beg for a hug just so that he could cry into the other man’s shoulder. No no no.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said with raw, terrifying honesty. “But you cannot give up now.”

“And then?”

“It will all work out.” Absolute conviction.

“Or not.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“Or not.”

***

Crowley was sure, _so sure_, that when the time finally came, he’d be ready.

Ha! What a joke. He wasn’t ready; wasn’t sure he ever would be. But time flies even when no one asks it to and soon enough, he was back in the court room.

The worst part – well not the _worst _worst part, just a bad part – was how utterly at ease Lucifer looked. He was used to court rooms, knew all the right words and phrases and signals. His suit and his responses were all tailored to perfection. Crowley, meanwhile, looked and sounded like a mess.

“This is to our advantage, actually,” Michael said. “You are supposed to be the victim here. It doesn’t hurt our cause when you look like one.”

Crowley didn’t even have the strength to be offended anymore.

The entire experience was a bit surreal. His mind kept drifting – jolly, would you look at the nice day outside, where Crowley’s ex-boyfriend isn’t currently on trial for the attempted murder of Crowley? Is that a bird he hears? It is a bird! What a day.

Bits of it penetrated, though.

“…brought in a critical state, GCS 5 points,” a doctor was saying. “Suffered cardiac arrest due to massive haemorrhage and tension pneumothorax. CT scan noted collapsed left lung, pleural effusion, multi-level rib fractures, fracture of the left ulnar bone, third and fourth left metacarpal bones. Subcapsular hematoma of the spleen, free fluid in the peritoneal cavity…”

Crowley drifted off again.

“Were the injuries life-threatening?” Michael asked.

The doctor looked at her for a moment. “His heart stopped on the way to the CT scan. We had to resuscitate him for seven minutes. I’d say the injuries were pretty fatal.”

Fatal. Dead for seven minutes.

Crowley felt the cold sweat on his forehead, the dryness in his mouth, the wild beat of his heart. He looked around the room, desperately trying to keep his mind from giving up entirely. There were people—voices—and Lucifer, glancing at him, calm as ever, his unreadable gaze trapping Crowley once more in that basement—

There was movement all around him. People moving in his field of vision, between him and Lucifer. Crowley blinked, tried to re-orient himself: they were leaving. Why? Was it over?

“We are taking a short lunch break,” Michael was saying.

Lunch break. Right.

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled. “See you, then.”

He walked in a dream-like haze, quite possibly bumping into walls and people. Then, suddenly, a gust of fresh air in his face; tires screeching, engines revving; a distant honk of a horn. And footsteps, voices, bright sunlight flooding his sensitive eyes.

He nearly fell off the steps of the court house. That finally jostled his brain into action, allowing him to straighten and take a proper look around himself.

Right. They weren’t done yet; this was just a break for everyone to enjoy a coffee and a sandwich in between discussing whether Crowley actually dying was enough to warrant sending a man to prison.

He wasn’t particularly hungry.

Instead, he found a small park, a bench to sit on and a packet of cigarettes in his pocket. He brought one to his lips, lit it, and took a drag. Then he held his breath for a while – a long time, long enough for his body to start protesting – before exhaling the cloud of smoke upwards, sending it for the grey-blue sky above. His mouth would taste like an ashtray but he didn’t care.

“Crowley?”

It was Aziraphale hovering above him, clearly unsure if his presence was welcome. And even in such a rotten mood, Crowley couldn’t bear to leave him this anxious. Wordlessly, he nodded to the empty space beside him.

The park bench wasn’t the most comfortable but it let them watch the trees and the patches of sky in between. It was a small area of peace and quiet carved from London’s never-ending bloody rat race. Which, to be fair, Crowley normally enjoyed.

Aziraphale didn’t voice his questions, waiting for Crowley to break the silence.

“I just don’t understand,” Crowley said. “I don’t understand why he hates me enough to want me _dead_. What is it that I’ve done.”

Carefully, Aziraphale said: “It isn’t about what you have done. I believe that this is just the sort of person he is.”

Crowley glared at him.

“Right. The wrong sort of person. Evil because it’s in his bloody _nature_.” He heard that all before; didn’t want to hear it from Aziraphale. “He isn’t. It wasn’t all bad, all the time.”

“But that is--,” Aziraphale struggled with his words. “Crowley. He has been abusing you from the day you met. Michael said—”

“I don’t care what bloody _Michael _says,” Crowley snarled. “She wasn’t there.”

“But even you admit—”

“I admit nothing! God!” Crowley dropped the cigarette, half-finished and still burning, and ground it beneath his heel. His right hand was shaking, his left hand was broken – ulnar bone, two metacarpal bones, something in the wrist, what the fuck did they say? And the pack of cigarettes fell out of his pocket because his hand was shaking so much.

Aziraphale bent down to pick it up. He offered one cigarette to Crowley. Took the lighter too, because Crowley was incapable of lighting it himself. And he disapproved of Crowley’s smoking habits, of course he did, but knew better than to bring it up now.

Damn this man. Always so nice, with that worried, gentle look in his blue eyes. And how does Crowley repay him? With shouts, blasphemy—abuse—

He swallowed.

“What do you want me to say, angel?” he asked quietly. “That he’s a bastard and always has been? That I wasted ten years of my life believing he isn’t? My twenties? The best bloody years of my life, _wasted?_” He laughed, exhaling acrid smoke into the air, almost in Aziraphale’s face. “I could have been, dunno. Spending it with people who actually care about me. Having fun. Achieving things. Learning stuff. Being happy or fulfilled or some shit.”

Aziraphale remained quiet. Crowley, in contrast, couldn’t stop talking.

“And that could have been it, you know? Poof. Gone. Dead. Just me, my unbelievable stupidity, and an early grave. Isn’t that just peachy?”

He smoked the rest of the cigarette and immediately lit up another, managing it somehow despite the trembling. The idea of asking for Aziraphale’s help was unbearable.

“Maybe he didn’t love me. I don’t think he’s capable of that, anyway. But he was there for me, and he took care of me, and I loved him, as much as _I _am capable… That has to count for something. Right?”

“Crowley—” The soft tone of voice was unbearable, too. Crowley could handle contempt, indifference, violence even, but he had no defences against _that_.

“Don’t,” he said, shuddering. He rubbed his eyes beneath the sunglasses. “Please. I appreciate it, I really do, just—don’t try to make me feel better.”

“All right,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Third cigarette. Fourth. He barely even smoked them anymore, he just needed to do something with his hand.

“Just—for the record,” Aziraphale said after a while. “I don’t think you were wasting your life. You were just living it. Perhaps it wasn’t the best you could have had, but—your feelings were real, even if the object of those feelings wasn’t. And if you were happy, even for a moment, I wouldn’t dream of taking that away from you.”

Was that it, then? Brief moments of genuine happiness that were somehow supposed to make up for the rest of his time here on Earth? It didn’t feel like enough—or was it just him being dramatic again, greedy, selfish, wallowing in misery, ill-fitting by design and miserable by choice? What if he never managed to get it right?

Aziraphale, bless him, had the decency to look away. He could do a fine job of pretending he couldn’t see Crowley cry.

“It’s almost time,” Aziraphale said. “Do you think you are going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Well. He did. He could run away crying. Briefly, he contemplated doing that very thing. The world was a big place, big enough to hide from his problems. If he got lucky, maybe he’d get Aziraphale to tag along. Somewhere nice, warm, pretty… they could lay back on the beach and watch the stars…

But they were in London and there weren’t many stars to see in the sky. Oh well.

***

Although Crowley would never admit it out-loud, Michael’s cool professionalism was soothing. Crowley tried to focus on her face and voice as he answered questions, in case his mind started spiralling again. It worked well, until—until he looked at Lucifer.

“Mr. Crowley?” Michael pressed on, but it was useless: the chasm opened and all Crowley could think about was how much trouble they were in, him and Aziraphale. He had broken his word; he had told the truth about what had happened, despite promising Lucifer he wouldn’t do that. There was no deal that might keep Lucifer from harming Aziraphale anymore—Crowley had done it, it was over, they were doomed—

Lucifer’s expression hardened. It was fury Crowley was well-familiar with, explosive but short-lived, whenever Crowley—whenever he ignored him, did something he wasn’t supposed to, talked to the wrong people, argued too much—whenever he disobeyed.

…fuck. It was all a joke, wasn’t it? Had been from the start. Crowley _had _been good, _had _followed the rules, first his family’s and then Lucifer’s, for bloody _years_, and the second he stopped all it got him was a few months on the streets and a bullet through his chest. Fuck _that_.

“And then he shot me,” he said, calmly holding Lucifer’s gaze.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his lips set into a harsh line. It was the clearest display of genuine emotion Crowley had seen from him in this courtroom. He wondered if anyone else noted its significance.

Phew. That was over and done with – except he’d have to be cross-examined by Mephistopheles, too. Their angle seemed to be that Crowley lied about everything to extort Lucifer for his money.

“As you have done in the past,” Mephistopheles said.

Crowley seethed. He shouldn’t have taken the gifts, the apartment, the money. With the benefit of hindsight, it was really stupid of him that he had. Stupid. Stupid stupid _stupid_.

“So, what? Then I shot myself in the chest to add credibility to my story?” he asked.

“You are not here to ask questions, Mr. Crowley. You are here to answer them.”

Right. Answer.

“When did you meet Michael?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Mr. Crowley.”

He sighed.

“A few months ago. I knew who she was, of course – I knew she had a grudge against Lucifer…”

Shit. Probably not the right time to mention that. He tried to focus, but his mind was drifting again. Why couldn’t he ever focus?

“You claim you went to the club that night?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you also claim you were worried my client might harm you?”

“…yes.”

“Then why were you at the club?”

Shit.

“I wanted—look—”

“Were you there to spy on my client?”

“Objection,” Michael said immediately.

His fingers were drumming an irregular rhythm onto the wooden stand. Crowley tried to still their movements, but if it weren’t the fingers, it’d be his foot, or his entire body, or his treacherous brain.

“In a way,” he said. “Yes. I was scared. I was looking for—I don’t know. Some proof of criminal activity.”

“On Michael’s orders?”

“Objection!”

“…yes.”

Mephistopheles smiled.

“Did you attempt to obtain sensitive data without my client’s knowledge?”

Crowley was getting fed up with the whole thing, really.

“Obviously not without his knowledge,” he said. “Did your _client _arrange this so that he could then watch his followers beat me up?”

“Mr. Crowley—”

“You have made a lot of accusations,” Mephistopheles went on. “Despite there being no proof that most of the people you have named have been in the vicinity of Pandemonium that night.”

Obviously they had alibis. Obviously. No way to prove _anything_, apparently. Despite the cameras, the witnesses, the smart phones. Despite Erik telling Aziraphale where Crowley was. Whatever strategy Lucifer had, he was obviously very thorough.

But Crowley remembered, oh yes. He couldn’t _not _remember a boot stomping down on his hand. The explosion of pain, the shattered bones. Blows that came from every direction. And those people didn’t even have anything against him – or at least he didn’t think they did, maybe with the exception of Hastur and Ligur. He had drunk with some of them, for fuck’s sake.

“Why are you asking me all these questions, Mephistopheles?” Crowley snarled. “You were there when it happened. Even if you get him out of this, what makes you think you’re not going to be next?”

He had gone too far, he knew it. But it was worth it just to watch Mephistopheles’s confidence waver.

“If it is as you say,” Mephistopheles went on. “If you believe my client wishes to harm you—” Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at that “—then why did you go to his house three days ago?”

Crowley stopped laughing.

“You claim my client attempted to kill you. Yet you visit him, alone and unarmed, in the middle of the night. That doesn’t strike me as the actions of a man who’s afraid for his life.”

No, it didn’t make sense. Long after he realized how dangerous Lucifer was, he still clung to him like a baby duck. No wonder he ended up in this situation, with how stupid he had been, how irresponsible, how—

Later, everyone took a short break. Ostensibly to review their notes; in practice, Michael needed time to yell at Crowley.

“Is it too much to expect of you to stick to the script?” she asked icily.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Crowley said.

Michael was fuming. “No. Of course not.”

He wished Aziraphale was here. But, of course, he couldn’t be so lucky.

“Why did you go to his _house_?” Michael said. “He could have killed you and jeopardized my entire case!”

“Luckily it didn’t come to that particular tragedy,” Crowley said. “He asked me to lie for him. That’s all.”

“Yes, I expected he might,” Michael said. “Not terribly original, but frequently effective. How much did he offer you?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said. He swallowed. “He threatened to kill Aziraphale.”

Michael barely reacted. “Well, thank goodness you didn’t say this in court. It isn’t wise to make statements like that if you aren’t able to prove them.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “But I can prove it. I mean, I have a recording of him saying as much.”

Now, Michael blinked at him. “You have a what now?”

“A recording,” Crowley repeated. The device was in his pocket. He had used it before during lectures and it finally occurred to him that it could have other uses. “Bastard keeps messing with my phone, so I brought this thing along.”

It was fun. Sneaky. Like something out of a spy movie, to match with the bullet hole decals he had put on the Bentley. Of course, all of this was a lot funnier before he got shot.

“A recording,” Michael repeated blankly.

“Yeah.”

“And you haven’t mentioned it before?”

Crowley gave a sort of full-body shrug. “He doesn’t actually say anything incriminating.”

“I would rather judge this for myself,” Michael said.

“What? I’m not giving it to you.”

Just the thought made him shudder, his hand clutched protectively around the recording device. Frustrated, Michael shook her head.

“Why not?”

“This is a private conversation. You know. Private.”

A brief look of disgust crossed her face.

“Whatever you said won’t be made public. I just need to know if there’s anything I can work with.” In the face of Crowley’s complete lack of response, Michael changed her tactics. “Very well. I take it your pride is more important than a threat to Aziraphale’s life?”

Now that was just low. Crowley hoped his glare accurately conveyed his feelings on the subject. But she did have a point; he hated to admit it, but she did. Reluctantly, he pulled the device out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them, pressing the play button before his resolve failed him.

It was just static at first. Then his voice, distorted, so weird to his own ears when it travelled via the air alone…

_“--I haven’t said anything.”_

_ “No, you haven’t._ _You looked so frightened, darling. It was painful to watch. And now Michael wants you to go back there. I’ve told you before. She doesn’t care about you or the things you go through…”_

_“And you do? You shot me. You--I trusted you.”_

The horrible sound of his voice breaking was somehow even worse than Lucifer’s taunting remarks. It shouldn’t be so easy to get beneath his skin, right? Right?

_“You had my trust and you threw it away like it was nothing. I saved your life, over and over again, and you act like you don’t owe me a damn thing—"_

_“I know I owe you. And you did save my life. That doesn’t mean you get to take it back when it suits you—”_

Another pause, long enough for Lucifer to collect himself.

_“What do you hope to gain from all this? Money?”_

_“I don’t want your money.”_

_“But you did take it. The job, the money, the apartment. Everything I gave you, you took. Now you claim I forced you to?”_

A horrible, incriminating silence. Crowley had no defences against that; Lucifer knew it.

_“So what is it that you want, darling? That you would risk repeating that humiliating spectacle once again? I would spare you the pain, if I could--Let me. It will be easier for you.”_

_“I want you to leave me alone.”_

_“After everything I’ve done for you? That’s hurtful, darling.”_

_“I’m not your darling.”_

_“Oh, you are. You always will be. I’m not like you, Crowley. I don’t find it so simple to move on. Your family. Your Church. Me. How easily you forget everyone who was once important to you. Who you once claimed to love.”_

_“I’m sorry. I--”_

Shit shit shit. He had cried then, he wasn’t going to cry now. Not in front of Michael, certainly; Crowley looked away and blinked his eyes behind the sunglasses, silently praying for someone to break the awkward silence. Mercifully, Lucifer did.

_“Ssh. Here is what we will do. You will tell them exactly what I tell you to say. And then I will do as you ask. I will leave you alone. Unless you come to your senses, that is. Unless you come back to where you belong.”_

Footsteps, a pause.

_“You are going to lose this case. You know you are. This is why you brought me here, isn’t it? I’m your last hope?”_

And, eventually, anger creeping into Lucifer’s voice.

_“How highly you think of yourself. I hardly need you for anything. I’m trying to do you a favour, Crowley. You’re just too blind to see it.”_

_“A favour.”_

_“Indeed. I can win this case with or without your assistance, darling. Don’t ever doubt it. But, you see - here is what is going to happen. When I win, I’m going to sue you for every pound I ever spent on you. With almost ten years of interest. You will never get out of debt.” _

_“That’s not a great incentive to hold back, then. Michael will win. You know she will.”_

For a moment, Michael looked pleased with herself. Then the smile faded as she heard Lucifer’s contemptuous laughter.

_“If that happens - and believe me, the chances are slim enough to be negligible - if I go to jail, what’s to stop me from committing the crime that put me there?” _

This was the important bit. Crowley tapped the desk to get her to focus.

_“Don’t worry, darling. I think I might spare you. Against all reason, I quite like having you around. Your priest, however. Your Aziraphale--I will make sure you get to see what I do to him. For however long it takes, I will make you watch.”_

Under any circumstances, Crowley would be glad to prove his point to someone he very deeply disliked. But simply hearing those words again made his head spin and his heartbeat quicken. He needed to hear Aziraphale’s voice again—he needed to know he was safe. That he hadn’t cocked it up by coming here today, testifying against Lucifer, sharing this recording with somebody else. He barely listened to what went on afterwards.

_“Whoever wins between Michael and me, it won’t make a difference. Not where you are concerned. Darling, you are fucked either way.”_

…right on cue, as if to prove his point.

Crowley knew what was coming next and dreaded it. That was the part that had nothing to do with the fucking case though—it was just—Lucifer’s voice in his ears, proprietary touch on his skin, claiming him—he reached for the device but Michael moved it out of his grasp before he could press the button.

_“What does it feel like. To know I’ll always be here, darling? Right here--right over your heart--”_

_“You’re sick.”_

_“Yet here you are. With me.”_

_“Don’t touch me.”_

_“Why not? This is as good as it gets for you, isn’t it? Your priest doesn’t want you, after all. You have nothing to go back to. Might as well stop pretending you’re not enjoying this.”_

_“I’m not.”_

A pause; sounds of a scuffle. Crowley’s heavy breathing, the desperation in his voice.

_“Stay away from him. Swear to me that you will. And you can have your deal.”_

Hell. Did he really sound like that around Lucifer? So bloody unsure of himself, terrified even? No wonder Lucifer never took him seriously.

Afterwards, Lucifer coached him through what he wanted Crowley to say. Michael listened to that part intently, since there was a chance Lucifer might need to reveal something of his own plans to have it match with the details of Crowley’s testimony. Objectively that was the interesting bit—except Crowley just wanted the recording to _end_. It was as if he couldn’t escape Lucifer’s clutches, forced to listen to his voice and re-live the memories in vivid details. And after the break he would be back there, in that room, with Lucifer himself seated just a short distance away.

Blessedly, the recording ended. Crowley and Michael sat there in awkward silence.

“What a wonderful man you have been involved with,” Michael said eventually, her voice cool and her eyebrow raised high.

“He didn’t use to be like this,” Crowley said.

“No need to get defensive,” Michael said.

“I’m _not_,” Crowley seethed. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“I see,” she said. “Tell me, then: do you feel he has been abusing you? Physically or otherwise?”

Crowley swallowed. “Not until recently, no.”

That was the truth, so why was it so hard to say? Lucifer always had a habit of ignoring his discomfort and protestations and—but that was just—he hadn’t been _beating _Crowley.

Michael seemed unconvinced. It was so weird – so awkward – for her to show sympathy, and to Crowley of all people.

“You were right though,” she said. Crowley felt his jaw unhinge and fall to the floor – hearing _that _from Michael? Wahoo. “If he is openly resorting to these kind of threats he must be getting desperate.”

“So the threats aren’t real?” Crowley asked hopefully.

“Oh, I’m sure they are,” Michael said. Then she sighed. “I’ll let the police know. Someone will watch over you and Aziraphale until Lucifer is properly detained.”

“What if his people want revenge?”

“Taking him down will disrupt their entire organization,” Michael said. Then she added: “I hope.”

“Oh. Goodie.”

Crowley slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. What were his chances, exactly? Cause things didn’t look great. Weirdly enough, though – weirdly, it was nice to know that Michael was showing concern.

“One thing I do not understand,” Michael said, hostility creeping back into her voice. “After everything Lucifer did to you – why would you now do the same to Aziraphale?”

What. “What?”

“It’s your own business if you decide to live in sin,” Michael said. “But why would you drag other people down with you? Is it about revenge? Lucifer hurt you, so now you want to get even by hurting somebody else?”

It took him a few attempts to get the words out: “I’m not trying to hurt Aziraphale. I wouldn’t. Ever.”

“You say that,” she said, ice cold. “Surely you agree that what you’re doing is unnatural and vile. Aziraphale was doing so well fighting those—perversions. Until you came along.”

“What the actual fuck are you talking about?” Crowley’s voice was raised, dangerously close to shouting.

Oh, but he knew very well. Of course he knew. Vile, unnatural, perverted – that’s what he was, hmm? _There are ways to treat that sort of thing_, his parents had said. _Let us help you. _Their judgemental condescension was perfectly reflected in Michael’s eyes.

_God doesn’t want you to be this way_. “Well then, why did She _make me that way_?” Crowley had screamed that at his parents, the overdramatic teenager that he was. That, and a long litany of profanities that he was ashamed of to this very day.

“I recognize this is not entirely your fault,” Michael said. “It’s not uncommon for victims of abuse to perpetuate the cycle—”

“Abuse,” Crowley repeated.

“Isn’t that how it usually happens in those communities of yours?”

“Damn. Luckily straight people never abuse one another,” Crowley said.

Placatingly, Michael said, “I’m not saying this doesn’t happen. But statistically—”

“Statistically,” Crowley repeated.

He needed a cigarette. No, fuck that – he needed Aziraphale. Maybe they could grab dinner or see a play or whatever. Somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

“You yourself admitted Lucifer was abusive,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “But that’s a Lucifer problem, not a gay people problem.”

She was opening her mouth again.

“Look, can we just—focus on the case?” Crowley asked before she had the chance to say what she wanted. “For now.”

“How typical,” Michael said coolly. “The moment your views are challenged, you either change the subject or get overemotional. Perhaps because you realize that no logical argument supports your hedonistic lifestyle?”

Her logic was impeccable, wasn’t it? Fucking fool-proof. But, frankly, Crowley was sick to the death of having these discussions. It wasn’t his job to change Michael’s mind.

“Fine,” he said. “You are right and I am wrong. You’ll be saved and I’m headed straight for Hell. _Now _can we focus?”

Michael’s contempt was near-palpable. Crowley ground his teeth in frustration. Why were they fighting about this? They were on the same side, at least technically.

Maybe Aziraphale was right in walking out on these people. They cared about him in their own way, Crowley could see it now. And he knew what it was like to be left to fend for himself, with absolutely no one to turn to. He thought that not having anyone to care about you was the worst thing in the world. But maybe—just maybe—he was wrong about that, too. Maybe the choice he thought he never had would be the one he’d eventually end up making.

It just sucked that they had to choose at all.

“Very well,” Michael said coldly.

“Great,” Crowley said. “Let’s get this bastard, shall we?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that happy endings are really hard to write :') 
> 
> Anyway: that's it! Thank you guys for your patience, hope you enjoyed the ride! ♥ And huge, huge thanks to [Sarcatholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic) and [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal) for their continued support and beta-reading! 
> 
> Also the wonderful, wonderful Sarcatholic wrote a [prequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166449/chapters/52915804) that focuses more on Crowley's relationship with Lucifer!
> 
> Thanks to the Ace Omens Discord server, too, for how patiently they endure my whining :D

He followed the flashing red-blue lights, the sirens, the smoke, all the way to the flame-engulfed building. He shoved past barricades and firemen; the doorknob burned when he brought his hand close to it so he threw himself at the door instead. Old, dry wood gave easily under his weight. He fell inside. Fell right into the inferno--

Fire was eating away at the structure. The books, the furniture, everything was now a crumbling silhouette outlined by the flames. Soon enough even that would be gone.

There was a figure huddled on the floor. Crowley fell on his knees beside it, breathing in the heated air in pained, shallow gasps. This couldn’t be real, it couldn’t--

Slowly, he unrolled the body. That’s all it was now, the drying husk of a man, once so bright and vibrant and full of life. The face was still recognizable beneath the horrible burns. Or maybe it was just this particular face and the fact that Crowley would know it anywhere – even in the depths of Hell.

“Angel,” he whispered. “Aziraphale!”

The heat was melting the glasses right off his face. His skin was crawling off his flesh. But he didn’t let go, he couldn’t let go, Aziraphale was dead and he couldn’t let go--

Crowley woke up.

It was a dream. Of course it was just a bloody _dream_. Just that, only that--but what if it wasn’t? What if Aziraphale was truly dead, burned or bleeding out. What if he was gone for good?

Crowley kicked off the sheets, heart pounding in his chest. He was too late, he had to be, he’d only get to clutch Aziraphale’s cold, lifeless body. Maybe if he ran now, maybe--the stupid door wouldn’t open, he had to get it open--and he fell down, stumbling, holding onto the walls for balance, down, to the living room--

Where Aziraphale was lying on the couch. Still. Dead--

Crowley approached him, shoving his hand to his mouth to hold back the horrified scream. He walked slowly, each step painful and reluctant. He didn’t want to come any closer; yet some force was dragging him forward. Towards--

Aziraphale was lying on his side, his face lit up by the orange street lights filtering through the window. And, before Crowley’s very eyes, he shifted slightly. The sheets rustled. Aziraphale moved.

The scream became a sob, tearing out of his throat. Crowley forced that down, too.

After a good while of observing him very carefully, he noticed that Aziraphale had been moving the whole time. His chest rose and fell on every breath. It was a slight thing, only noticeable once he calmed down and stayed very still.

This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Crowley lowered his hand and shivered. Once the terror had subsided, he felt the coldness seep in. He could never handle the cold. The bed, meanwhile, would still be nice and warm from his residual body heat. It would be just lovely to crawl right back there. Of course it wasn’t his bed, his room, or even his apartment, just a temporary safe house the police had them stay at. But it was a bed nonetheless.

As soon as his back was turned, however, Crowley felt a fresh wave of nauseating anxiety. What if something happened to Aziraphale while he wasn’t there? Would he even be able to sleep, not knowing if Aziraphale was alive or dead?

He slid down onto the floor, his back against the couch. It was barely wide enough for one person to sleep on but Aziraphale had insisted; since Crowley was still recuperating, he’d get the bed.

Always so thoughtful. It was—a bit too much, sometimes. Definitely more than Crowley was used to.

He brought his folded legs to his chest and hugged them awkwardly. He’d just stay here for a while. Until his heart rate slowed down. It wasn’t comfortable at all, sitting on the bare floor, and he was cold and shivering – but that was a good thing. He was tired, so very tired—at least that way he wouldn’t—wasn’t going to—

“Crowley?”

Crowley blinked groggily. His entire body felt stiff and awkward and he couldn’t make sense of his surroundings. The room was unfamiliar. He was on the floor, why was he on the floor…? And it was so bloody cold…

“Crowley—goodness, what are you doing here?”

The voice was nice and familiar. And there were arms, wrapping a warm blanket around Crowley’s bare shoulders. He burrowed into that warmth, gratefully, before he managed to respond.

“’Ziraphale?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley—oh, get up here—”

The couch was a lot softer than the floor. Warmer, too; and it smelled of Aziraphale’s cologne. Or maybe it was the man himself, holding Crowley – a little hesitant, a little awkward.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Crowley said. There was something else—fire and terror and pain—all gone now.

He shivered. _Gone_. He was safe. Didn’t yet remember what from, but they were _safe_.

He couldn’t stop trembling. Aziraphale’s grip on his shoulders tightened.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “It’s okay, darling.”

Crowley’s breath caught in his chest. It was too much, too painful—he couldn’t breathe—he burrowed his face in Aziraphale’s neck and tried to stifle a whimper.

“Don’t call me that,” he said. “Please.”

His voice was weak, barely more than a pained whisper. Had Aziraphale heard him? And if he did—was it too much? Too weird? It was, after all, just a word. If Crowley couldn’t handle _words_ how the fuck was he supposed to deal with everything else?

Louder, Crowley said, “I only meant—look, angel, it’s not about _you_ or anything like that, it’s just—”

He shifted away and met Aziraphale’s gaze. The lights weren’t on so the lines of his face were softer, less defined; ethereal, almost. Angelic.

“You can call me anything you like,” Crowley finished lamely. _If you keep talking to me like that. If you keep being there for me – you can do _anything _you like_.

Shit. Shit, that was bad, wasn’t it? It was what got him into this entire mess.

“You don’t want to be called darling?” Aziraphale asked gently.

“It’s what Lucifer likes to call me,” Crowley forced himself to say. “I just—I’d rather not think about him right now.” He buried his face in his hands. “But it’s not—I do like when you are nice to me, please don’t take this the wrong way—”

“There are more words in the English language,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t need to use this particular one, if it brings back bad memories.”

He was so bloody gentle – he had to be, right? Because Crowley was _fragile_, Crowley was _broken_, Crowley needed care and attention, and—

He couldn’t just sit here cradled like a needy infant, for fuck’s sake. How could he expect people to treat him like an adult if he never started acting like one?

“What time is it?” he asked wildly. “I want some tea, would you like some tea? I’ll go get the kettle going—”

He kept blabbering all the way to the kitchen. Kettle. Tea. Those were easy things, simple things. If he couldn’t deal with _that _then what good was he?

“Ah—fuck!”

“Crowley?”

Crowley shoved two fingers into his mouth. The kettle was bloody hot—of course it was. It was a kettle. Filled with hot water.

“Let me, will you?”

Aziraphale led him to the sink and got the cold water running. Crowley stuck his scorched fingers under it and kept them there until his skin went numb. Then he rubbed his face with ice-cold water and tried to breathe.

“Lord,” he said. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. While Crowley had his little breakdown, Aziraphale served two mugs of tea. Never mind that it was 3:42 am and all the sensible people were fast asleep. “Have you considered that you’re being too hard on yourself? You went through an incredibly traumatic experience.”

Crowley snorted. “Bad break-up, more like.”

“You almost died.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley said. “Still alive, aren’t I?” His voice wavered. “For now.”

He sunk into one of the kitchen chairs and watched steam curl above the mugs.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said suddenly. “It isn’t safe. What if Lucifer tracks me down? He’ll find you, too…”

Aziraphale was looking at him with a worried expression.

“Crowley, Lucifer is in jail. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Right. Yeah. I remember.”

But he didn’t; not quite. It was all a bit blurry in his head. When Michael had told him that it was over, she had won – well, Crowley hadn’t quite believed her. Wouldn’t believe her, not until he saw Lucifer in person. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

Aziraphale took his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“No,” Crowley said. “It isn’t. I’m—I’m _not_.” He took in a deep breath. “I should maybe see someone. Maybe my stupid brain is not beyond fixing, eh?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. He looked as if he was about to say something in response to that but changed his mind mid-way.

“I’ve been doing some research,” he said. “And there are a couple of numbers you might be interested in calling.”

Aziraphale not only wanted to help him, he took the time to consider how best to go about it. It was such a simple thing and yet it still left Crowley speechless for a long while. 

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah. Thanks, angel.” He swallowed with some difficulty. “Maybe not right now though?”

“Not right now,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley looked away, at the mugs of tea, at the clock.

“We should get some sleep,” he said.

“We should,” Aziraphale agreed. “Will you be able to?”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “I just… had a nightmare.” It seemed even less real now that they were drinking tea together. “It was very melodramatic, you’d hate it.”

Aziraphale wasn’t fooled by his casual tone.

“If that makes you feel better, we could share the bed,” he said.

After a pause, Crowley said: “That’s a bit forward of you, Father.”

“I meant to sleep in!” Aziraphale hurried to say. He calmed down a little when he realized Crowley was laughing. “Really, dear. It’s not like we haven’t—”

At that, Crowley had to stop laughing. Memories came flooding back, unwelcome – _you used him, you took advantage, he never wanted it—_

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We shouldn’t have. Not like—not like _that_.”

“The circumstances weren’t ideal, no,” Aziraphale said gently. “But I can’t say that I regret what happened between us.”

He was quite calm as he said it; his soft smile, his eyes—something in his eyes that Crowley was unable to look away from.

“You weren’t yourself,” Crowley said. “I pushed you into something you wouldn’t have agreed to under other circumstances. This wasn’t right.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “It’s true I was grieving, for lack of a better word, but it’s debatable whether or not I was being myself. Perhaps I haven’t been myself around you practically since we met?” He smiled sadly. “I wanted to kiss you for a very long time, my dear. And I spent most of that time trying to convince myself that I didn’t, because how could I? I’ve been taught that it’s wrong to want to kiss other men.”

Crowley’s brain had vacated the premises sometime during his speech.

“Funny how we kept lying to ourselves,” he said stupidly.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “It really isn’t funny at all.”

“I suppose not,” Crowley said, sobering up.

Aziraphale took his hand and squeezed it. “We need to talk about this,” he said. “Properly. Maybe not now though?”

Oh no. Aziraphale wanted to talk about their _feelings_. Crowley’s skin crawled at the thought of having such conversations. He had spent so long trying to guess what Lucifer wanted from him and then apologizing once he invariably got it wrong. It would be new and a little mortifying to know Aziraphale’s expectations from the beginning – but what if Crowley couldn’t meet them?

He was too tired to think.

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said. “Later. We can talk later.”

***

_A few weeks later._

What was he thinking when he applied for the job? Seriously, _what_ was he thinking?

Crowley smoothed the crinkles of his jacket and tried to look respectable – a task made impossible by the snake tattooed on his face, but still. The security agents didn’t react to his nervous fidgeting, for which he was grateful.

Eventually the door opened and a well-dressed woman walked inside.

“Mr Crowley, was it?” she asked. Her voice was sharp and didn’t at all match the faux smile.

“Yes.”

“Lovely, wonderful,” she said. She took a seat opposite him, placed down her phone on the ridiculously fancy table, and picked up a tablet to review her notes. “You want to become my son’s tutor, isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” Crowley said.

“We haven’t had much luck with previous tutors,” Mrs Dowling went on, scowling at Crowley as if that was his fault, specifically.

Warlock Dowling had been described, euphemistically, as “evil incarnate”. Crowley wouldn’t even be here, but, well – he hadn’t had much luck with previous jobs, either. Anyone who bothered to do a background check on him got nervous sooner or later and Crowley ended up fired.

Mrs Dowling scrolled the tablet.

“You don’t have a lot of experience, Mr Crowley,” she said.

“Erm—”

“And you were romantically involved with a dangerous crime lord?”

Ah. There it was. “Well, at the time I didn’t know—”

“Who is currently incarcerated because of you?”

“I wouldn’t say it was because of me, exactly—”

“And you’re gay.”

“I’m not—” Would it even be worth it to try and explain pansexuality to this woman? Crowley sighed. “Yes. I am.”

Mrs Dowling tapped her phone with one sharp, blood-red nail. Her friendly smile was cracking.

“Mr Dowling was very much against even considering your application, Mr Crowley,” she said. “I will spare you the exact reasons why. Of course—” her smile stretched to a disturbing degree. “Mr Dowling couldn’t be bothered to be here, because apparently the education of his only son isn’t as important as golf.” She laughed; a shrill, unpleasant sound. “So welcome aboard, Mr Crowley! I wish you luck.”

Crowley stared at the woman in abject horror.

“Uh—thanks?”

Yes, _definitely _a terrible idea. What was he thinking?

…well, okay. Tutoring kids had been unexpectedly fun and rewarding, on the few occasions he got to try his hand at it; they got excited about learning new things, and practically everything was a new thing to them. Crowley didn’t get tired of answering questions, mostly because he didn’t get tired of asking them.

There was just one problem: Lucifer. What if prison couldn’t stop him? What if he managed to take out his anger on children placed in Crowley’s care? It was a horrifying thought, and the reason why Crowley tried to hold onto other jobs. But not even Lucifer would go against the American ambassador, right? So Warlock Dowling wouldn’t be in danger. It was a brilliant plan!

He hoped so, anyway.

***

_A few months later—_

It was a crisp, autumn day. The bandstand was one of their favourite meeting places, back when they were still simply friends. Crowley had no idea what they were now.

“Here,” he said, offering Aziraphale a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a warm smile. “It is rather chilly today, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said.

He couldn’t stand still.

“I was very glad to hear from you,” Aziraphale said. “It almost seemed like you have been avoiding me.”

He held the cup with both hands, his smile a touch self-conscious, his blue eyes worried. Crowley’s first instinct was to hug him; but Crowley’s instincts were famously terrible.

“Yeah, I—sorry,” he said. “You know how it is – been trying to salvage what’s left of my degree, there’s the new job and. Just a lot going on.” _And I’ve been avoiding you. We both know that._

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “How is young Warlock?”

“Oh, he has a mountain of issues that will probably require very expensive therapy once he grows up,” Crowley said. Between the distant father and the caring mother who nevertheless didn’t mind using the child to get back at her husband, it was no wonder Warlock acted the way he did. “But we get along.”

“That’s wonderful,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “My advisor suggests I should consider a career in teaching. Can you imagine?” He snorted at the ridiculousness, but Aziraphale nodded along as if it made perfect sense. Crowley sighed. “How have you been?”

They talked for a while about Aziraphale’s PhD, his plans to set up another bookshop, maybe somewhere outside of London. And Gabriel and Michael, who still refused to talk to him.

“That’s a bad thing?” Crowley asked, blinking.

Aziraphale scowled. “Not necessarily, no. But for the longest time they were the closest I had to a family.”

“I thought Gabriel was your supervisor?”

“He was, yes,” Aziraphale said. After a pause he added: “I definitely won’t miss _that_. But they took care of me after my mother died and it’s hard to just let that go.” He glanced at Crowley. “Michael didn’t get the promotion she had been hoping for, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently there were some ethical concerns,” Aziraphale kept his voice carefully neutral. “Regarding her treatment of a key witness.”

“Shame,” Crowley said, trying and failing to sound sympathetic.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale replied in the same manner.

They carefully avoided each other’s gaze.

“We should talk.”

“Yeah.”

Eventually, Crowley managed to break the silence. “I don’t think this is working, angel.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Aziraphale said carefully.

Much as he hated every word coming out of his mouth, Crowley forced himself to continue: “You helped me through a really difficult time. I don’t think I ever thanked you for it. But—it shouldn’t be like that.” It’s been almost a year, and Crowley still had trouble sleeping. It’s been almost a year, and he still had panic attacks whenever someone reminded him of Lucifer’s face, voice, posture. He had been anxious, irritable, restless, difficult; it’s been almost a year, and he felt no closer to _fine _than he had at the very beginning. “You shouldn’t be the one doing all the work here,” he said quietly. “You deserve someone who can help you, too. And that just isn’t me. I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t even bring himself to look Aziraphale in the eyes—but, no. He owed him that much.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale began gently. “You are being too hard on yourself. It really is okay to need people. And you’ve been through a lot.”

“So have you,” Crowley said.

Hesitantly, mindful of the cup of hot coffee in between them, Crowley came closer and took Aziraphale’s face between his hands. Up close, Aziraphale’s eyes were startling blue; his lips parted slightly, as if in anticipation—and they were soft, so soft, responding to Crowley’s kisses with a tenderness that broke his heart all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again and again, utterly useless.

“Crowley, stop,” Aziraphale said.

He didn’t know if it was about the kisses or the apologies; he stepped back either way, wrapping his arms around himself because he couldn’t wrap them around Aziraphale.

“Being there for you was never a chore,” Aziraphale said with wan smile. “Believe it or not, my dear, I happen to like your company.”

“Why? I can be such a mess,” Crowley said. Then he cursed himself, all over again. “No, wait – I shouldn’t be asking you for reassurances every five minutes, that’s gotta be exhausting—”

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Honestly, Crowley – you are witty, and clever, and kind, and I feel like we understand one another in ways I never expected to experience. It would be a shame to lose that.”

“So that’s just it – this is as good as it gets for us?” The words were bitter, unpleasant. “It shouldn’t be like that. You deserve better.”

Aziraphale was getting agitated, too. He placed down the coffee cup on the wooden balustrade and pressed his hands together.

“There really isn’t a good response to that, is there? I can tell you that I got exactly what I deserve, which is insulting to the both of us. We can argue until dawn about everything you think is wrong with you, and everything I think is wrong with me, and part ways bitter and miserable.”

“There is nothing wrong with you!” Crowley shouted. “Christ, angel, this is what I’ve been saying all along – I don’t want _you _to feel bad about this, because it’s _all my fault_!”

“Do not take Lord’s name in vain,” Aziraphale chided gently. “And don’t say such bloody nonsense to my face.”

Crowley was shaking.

“I’m sorry—”

“Yes. You’ve said,” Aziraphale said.

Despite tears prickling in his eyes, Crowley began to laugh.

“There really isn’t a painless way of breaking up with someone, is there,” he said.

“I don’t think there should be,” Aziraphale sighed. “My dear—would you now listen to me?”

Crowley nodded, wiping the tears from his face in the most dignified way he could manage.

“I understand your frustration,” Aziraphale said. “But you must understand that years of damage can’t be undone in the space of a few months. You must give yourself more time.”

How _much _time? How much longer would it take? It would be so much easier if he could know that.

“All right,” Crowley said. “I can do that.”

Aziraphale’s smile radiated warmth.

“Then I will wait,” Aziraphale said. “Until you’re ready.”

“Oh, no pressure then,” Crowley said drily. “But, angel – if you meet someone in the meantime – no, shut up, let me finish – if you want to date someone else—” Aziraphale was looking at him, eyebrows raised. Crowley sighed. “Well I can’t promise to be _happy_ about it, but I’ll hide my pain valiantly.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale sighed. “But let’s worry about it when it happens, shall we?”

“Right,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale had to have heard the tension in his voice; he reached out, an invitation not a demand, and Crowley gratefully took his hand.

“Your coffee’s getting cold, angel,” he said, a touch reproachfully.

“So it is,” Aziraphale’s gaze darted to the abandoned cup. “My apologies. We could perhaps go somewhere? Have lunch?”

He had to know what that soft look in his eyes was doing to Crowley. It was just a bit _too _innocent, his eyes a little _too _wide to be one hundred per cent genuine. But Crowley adored these little reminders that there was more to Aziraphale than met the eye; that deep down inside, beneath his angelic exterior, he was just a little bit of a bastard.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Crowley blurted out.

He waited with bated breath for Aziraphale to finally snap. He _had _to be getting fed up with Crowley’s indecisiveness, right?

_He doesn’t hate you_, Crowley told himself firmly. _If he hated you, you would know by now. Relax. Stop spiralling._

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale said. It was somehow easier to believe him; Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s and took his other hand but hesitated right before their lips could meet.

Softly, Aziraphale said: “Crowley. It’s okay. Whatever we want to be, we will figure it out eventually.” He was smiling as he said it; Crowley couldn’t help but smile back. “We have all the time in the world.”


End file.
